





S®£^§r ^ : V< 






■«c x- r<e 



p <*r < ■ 
PS «Z « 
-C' OCT « 



CO, <£* 



^'^BEC 



^ <3c tec- 

I:' : CC CC 



lift* 






«XC * - <STc; t3(W 





■WtPit?- 






3P s 


^rc-Cj* 


**<sr^~- 


^m 


3P£ C-- 


«S2£ C 


'v)C?r<r' 


<- <32£ 


&3E.C. 


,.<3T o ^-, 




"" <Z~s'' 


mc 


<3L 


H * 8y 


- <3| 


*c3<r«- <l 




CX < 


-3 <~« 


S^P' <=- 


c<^ <:: 


cr 


rr<j 


r - <3 


OCC_.d 


,<tu 


.XTOC? 


-• <3s 






! £±£ 


S <X< 


"&C 


<Z<£ «C 


• CG< C 


.CC d 


<3 


ccc 


_ .O^c ■■C. 




<Tt 


3CC< 




£53 


fe*3 


r-<T"«. < 


cr cce 


CC 


*?. \ 



ace 



c < 
c«c 



<c < 
C< CC 

Cc cC CCc C*~. 
cc C cc:c c<T <cc<c 
cc c ccc c<^ ccc c 
cccc«r< ccr ccc<c 



£ 


c cc<c 


C • '^C~ 


c< 

< c 


C c c 


^^^c^r 


c 


C ^ c 


CCC* 


<c 


<f 


«: < < 


C_ <f" 


c< 




C f <: 




CC ( 


c < 


£*'*« c 


fee 


(< < 


c « 


:T c<' .c 


C C 


cc i 




cc< <<- 
ccccc; 


£" 


<c c 


c ^ 


ccr'cc. 


CjC 


cc «T 


<c< cc 


S^ 


cc <c 


c ^£"" 


^r^cc 


^-> 


(C cc 


" <C*' 


CCC'CC 


S^ c 


t C< 


^~<tcr 


CCC'CC 


CC 


( c 


>^ r -' , 


• <:<: <<T 


cc 


c C 



cc c: « ■■ c< 

cc €Z- C • -' 

cc «CT C « 



C«C ccc cc 

C«C CC* CC 
^" CCCcC 






;< ••>;* 




-2$ 




C C t 

eel 



C<LC< r 

« c c c 
CC c C 



CC c c 

" c c 
CC ( c 



at .< c 

*'< . c 
cc cC 



CCC 

fees 



OC C 



c c <r 
<ccc 

-'CCC: 
c ^ c CCC 

cccccc 

c C <CCC 
c cc CCC 



■1 


■ *Cc 


C c 

c c 


c ccc 


t «g^ 


c c < 

Ccc < 


t «o 


€ c ' 


S ^ 


CC ( 

Cc c 


c «cc 


re c 


cc «cc 


CC c ^1 


Cc C 


0: «p 


CCvC 


<3C *ts 


CC c 


CC *£?- 


Cc c 


Ct <cc 


cc c 


«^^ 


CC c 


^Ifc^c 


CC < 


c ^5-^ 


>> 





C<3. OC 
cC c c 
cc cc 



cCZ CC 

c^g ££ 

CCS cc 

cc.ee 

c.aciccc. 
( ar:c:>.c 

- <S.. C'5 

c <&. C < 
CC c < 



e&%: 



A POET'S BAZAAR. 



PICTURES OF TRAVEL IN GERMANY, ITALY, 
GREECE, AND THE ORIENT. 



BY 



HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN, 

AUTHOR OF "THE IMPROVISATORE," "IN SPAIN AND A VISIT TO 
PORTUGAL," ETC. 




3tutt,or'£ aHutiom 







NEW YORK: 
PUBLISHED BY HURD AND HOUGHTON. 

1871. 



• ASS- 



RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: 

STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY 

H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. 







CONTENTS. 



GERMANY. 

FAGB 

I. The Spanish Dancers i 

II. Breitenburg 3 

III. A Reminiscence from the Steamboat "Storen" . 6 

IV. Liszt 8 

V. The Maid of Orleans ii 

VI. The Railroad 13 

VII. Gellert's Grave 17 

VIII. Nuremberg 18 

IX. A Wish accomplished 24 

X. Munich 26 

XI. Tyrol . . 34 

ITALY. 

I. Entrance into Italy 40 

II. A Night on the Apennines 46 

III. The Bronze Hog 49 

IV. Travelling with the Vetturino 60 

V. Arrival at Rome 77 

VI. The Borghese Family 80 

VII. The Churches in Rome 82 

VIII. Fairy Palaces in Reality ...... 86 

IX. Christmas Eve in Rome 92 

X. Three Roman Boys 94 

XI. Religious Customs 96 

XII. The Cascades of Tivoli 102 

XIII. My Boots 105 

XIV. The Emperor's Castle . 109 

XV. St. Canute in 

XVI. The Coliseum 113 

XVII. The Carnival 115 

XVIII. Pegasus and the Vetturino Horses . . . .119 

XIX. Malibran-Garcia is Dead 124 

XX. A Prospect from my Window in Naples . . . 126 



IV CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

XXI. A Neapolitan Corricolo 129 

XXII. Departure from Italy 131 

XXIII. The Steamer's Passage 135 

XXIV. Sicily 136 

XXV. Malta . . 140 

GREECE. 

I. A Few Days in the Mediterranean .... 149 

II. Panorama of South Morea and the Cyclades . . 154 

IIL The Bay of Piraeus 160 

IV. Arrival at Athens 161 

V. The Acropolis 167 

VI. A Rainy Day in Athens 171 

VII. The Rhapsodists 173 

VIII. Daphne 177 

IX. The Feast of Freedom .181 

X. The Marble Lion 186 

XI. The Easter Festival in Greece 187 

XII. The Court in Athens 189 

XIII. Prokesch-Osten 193 

XIV. A Short Journey . 196 

XV. Friendship's Covenant 198 

XVI. Departure from Greece 207 

THE EAST. 

I. A Storm in the Archipelago 211 

II. Smyrna 213 

III. A Rose from Homer's Grave 215 

IV. A Little Bird has sung about it 217 

V. The Dardanelles and the Sea of Marmora . . . 218 
VL Arrival at Constantinople and Pera .... 224 

VII. The Bazaars 228 

VIII. A Ramble through Constantinople . . . .231 

IX. The Dervises' Dance 236 

X. A Turkish Sketch ........ 242 

XL The Cemetery at Scutari 244 

XII. Mohammed's Birthday 246 

XIII. Visit and Departure 253 

XIV. The Bosphorus 258 

XV. The Black Sea 266 

XVL A Steppe-journey between the Black Sea and the 

Danube 269 



CONTENTS. V 

THE PASSAGE OF THE DANUBE. 

FAGB 

I. From Czerna-woda to Rustzuk 276 

II. We Sail 281 

III. A Turbulent Passage 282 

IV. Servia's Dryads 287 

V. The Pasha of Orsova 293 

VI. The Quarantine 294 

VII. It is Sunday To-day 300 

VIII. A Journey along the Danube from Orsova to Dren- 

cova 301 

IX. A Voyage up the Danube from Drencova to Semlin . 308 

X. From Semlin to Mohacs 315 

XI. The Swineherd 319 

XII. Fair Guests 321 

XIII. Pesth and Ofen 323 

XIV. The Danube from Pesth to Vienna .... 326 

HOMEWARD BOUND. 

I. Vienna's Theatre 332 

II. Profiles 335 

III. The Workman 337 

IV. A Grave 338 

V A Northward Flight 339 



^ 




A POETS BAZAAR. 



GERMANY. 
I. 

THE SPANISH DANCERS. 

IN the summer of 1840, some Spanish dancers, who were 
staying in Copenhagen, drew all the inhabitants of that 
city to the old theatre in Kongens Nytorv (the King's new 
market, which is no market). The whole town talked about the 
Spanish national dance, and the newspapers spread the report 
of their fame throughout the land. I was at that time on a 
visit to Baron Stampe at Nyso, that home which our immor- 
tal Thorwaldsen found, and which, by the works he executed 
there, has become a remarkable place in Denmark. 

From Thorwaldsen I got the first verbal account of the 
Spanish dancers ; he was transported and inspired, as I had 
never before seen him. " That is a dance ! there are attitudes ! 
there are forms and beauty ! " said he, and his eyes glistened 
while he spoke. " See ! one is in the South when one sees 
that dance ! " 

One forenoon when I entered his atelier, I saw a bass-relief 
representing a dancing Bacchus and Bacchante completed in 
clay. " The Spanish dancers have given me the idea," said 
he ; " they also can dance thus ; I thought of their charming 
dance when I did this." 

I was very desirous of seeing these children of Spain — of 
seeing the charming Dolores Serral. The Copenhagen public 
has now forgotten her. 

I went to Copenhagen, and saw — a dance that made me for- 
get the painted scenery and the lamp-lights. I was with them 



2 A POETS BAZAAR. 

in Valencia's dales ; I saw the beautiful beings whose every 
motion is grace, every look passion. 

After my arrival in the city I saw Dolores dance every even- 
in"- : but I never met her off the stage, — I never saw her ex- 

o > 

cept when she danced in public. 

It was now the end of October, as cold, rainy, and stormy 
as we generally have it in our clear country. The Spanish 
dancers were going • Dolores said, like Preciosa : " To Valen- 
cia ! " but the way from Copenhagen to Valencia is over 
Kiel. She must go with the steamer Christian the Eighth, in a 
northern autumn, cold and stormy. Half of the good folks 
who had collected together to bid their friends farewell, were 
sea-sick on the little trip from the. land to the steam-vessel. 

It was a northern billow-dance ! Dolores was immediately 
faint ; her pretty limbs were extended for a rest, which was 
no rest. One sea after the other washed over the deck ; the 
wind whistled in the cordage ; once or twice the steamer 
seemed to stand still, and as if bethinking itself whether it 
were not best to turn back again. The decanters and plates, 
although they were lashed fast, trembled as if with fear or by 
instinct. There was such a clattering and creaking ; every 
plank in the vessel groaned, and Dolores sighed so loud that 
it pierced through the deck. Her fine, pliant foot stretched 
itself convulsively against the thin, wooden partition — her 
forehead touched the other. 

A ship is, however, a strange world ! To the right we are 
separated from a death in the waves — to the left another thin 
plank is as a cherub's sword. Dolores sighed, and I sighed 
also. We lay here a whole night, and literally sighed for each 
other ; and the waves danced as Dolores could not dance, and 
they sung as I could not sing ; and during all this the ship 
went on its powerful course until the bay of Kiel encompassed 
us, and by degrees one passenger after the other went on deck. 

I told Dolores what an impression her dancing had made 
on the first sculptor of our age ; I told her about Bacchus and 
the Bacchante, and she blushed and smiled. I really fancied 
that we danced a fandango together on the green plain under 
the fragrant acacias. She gave me her hand, but it was to 
take leave — she travelled direct to Valencia. 



BREITENBURG. 3 

Many years hence Dolores will be an old woman, and she 
will dance no more ; but then the towns and cities which she 
had delighted with her presence will dance before her; and 
she will then remember the metropolis on the green isle in the 
North amidst the stormy sea which she sailed over ; she will 
think of that bass-relief in which she still soars so young and 
beautiful : and her fingers will glide down the rosary which 
she sits with in the balcony, and she will look over the 
mountains. And they who stand around the old woman, then 
will ask her : " What are you thinking of, Dolores ? " 

And she will smile and answer : " I was on a voyage to the 
North ! " 



II. 

BREITENBURG. 

My carriage turned off from the highway between Kiel and 
Hamburg over the heath, as I wished to pay a visit to Breiten- 
burg : a little bird came twittering toward me, as if it would 
wish me welcome. 

The Lunenburg heath is year after year more and more 
covered with plantations, houses, and roads, whereas its con- 
tinuation through the Duchies of Sleswick and Holstein, and 
into Jutland, has still for the most part the same appearance 
as in the last century. 

There are character and poetry in the Danish heath : here 
the starry heavens are large and extended ; here the mist soars 
in the storm like the spirits of Ossian, and solitude here gives 
admittance to our holiest thoughts. Groups of crooked oaks 
grow here like the ghosts of a forest, stretching out thei^ 
moss-covered branches to the blast ; an Egyptian race, with 
chestnut skin and jet black eyes, here leads a herdsman's life, 
roasts in the open air the stolen lamb, celebrates a marriage, 
and dances outside the house, which is quickly raised with 
ling-turf, in the midst of this solitary heath. 

My carriage moved but slowly on in the deep sand. I really 
believe one might be sea-sick from driving here. We go con- 



4 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

tinually forward through a desert and deserted region ; the 
few houses one comes to are extended barns, where the smoke 
whirls forth through the open door. The houses have no 
chimneys ; it is as if the hearth were wanting, as if within 
there was no home, as if only the stranger, in wandering over 
the heath, had kindled a hasty fire here in the middle of the 
floor, to warm himself a little, and had then proceeded on his 
way. The chimneys on the peasant's house, and the curling 
smoke make it homely ; the chimney ornaments enliven almost 
as much as the flower-beds before the house ; but here the 
houses were in harmony with the heath and the cold autumn 
day. The sun certainly shone, but it had no warm rays ; it 
was perhaps not even the sun itself, but only its shining garb 
which glided over the sky. We met not a human being — not 
a drove of cattle was to be seen. One might almost believe 
that everything was asleep, or bound by enchantment. 

Late in the afternoon a fertile landscape for the first time 
presented itself ; we saw a large wood, the sunshine gave its 
brown leaves the appearance of a copper forest, and just then 
as a large herd of cattle came out of the thicket, and stared 
at us with their large eyes, a whole adventure arose before me 
of the enchanted city in the copper forest. 

Behind the wood we passed through a large village which, 
if it did not lead me into the land of adventure, yet brought 
me back into another century. In the houses, the stable, 
kitchen, and living-room seemed to be in one. The road was 
deep mud, in which lay large blocks of stone. This was very 
picturesque, but it became still more so ; for in the midst of 
that thick forest, a knightly castle with tower and gable front 
shone in the evening sun, and a broad and deep stream wound 
its way between it and us. 

The bridge thundered under the horse's hoofs ; we rolled 
on through wood and garden-grounds, into the open castle- 
yard, where busy lights flitted behind the windows, and every- 
thing appeared rich and yet homely. In the centre of the 
yard stands a large old well, with an artificially wrought iron 
fence, and from thence flew a little bird — it was certainly the 
same that had twittered a welcome greeting to me when. I be- 
gan my drive over the heath. It had come hither before me, 



BREITENBURG. J 

it had announced my coming ; and the castle's owner, the 
noble Rantzau, led his guest into a pleasant home. The 
dishes smoked on the table, and the champagne exploded. 
Yes, it was certainly enchantment ! I thought of the stormy 
sea, of the solitary heath, and felt that a man may, neverthe- 
less, be at ease in this world. 

The birds twittered outside whilst I looked out of the win- 
dow j the light fell by chance on the well, and it appeared as 
if the bucket went up and down of itself, and in the middle 
of the bucket sat a little brownie or fairy, and nodded a wel- 
come to me. I certainly did not mistake, for the brownie's 
grandfather once presented a golden cup to a Rantzau of 
Breitenburg, when the knight rode by moonlight through the 
forest. The goblet is still preserved in the old carved oak 
press in the knight's hall over the chapel. I have seen it my- 
self, and the old pictures on the wall, all proud knights, moved 
their eyes ; it was in the clear sunshine : had it been on a 
moonlight night, they would assuredly have stepped out of 
their frames, and drunk a health to the worthy Count who 
now rules in old Breitenburg. 

" The happiness of Paradise has no history ! " says a poet ; 
" the best sleep has no dreams," say I • and in Breitenburg 
night brought no dreams. By daylight, on the contrary, old 
sagas and recollections anticipated thought : they greeted me 
in the ancient alleys of the garden, they sat and nodded to 
me on the winding stairs of the watch-tower, where the Scotch 
lay on the alert, when Wallenstein's troops had encamped 
without. Wallenstein put the men to death by the sword, and 
as the women in the castle would not, at his command, wash 
the blood from the floor, he had them also killed. 

In the beautiful scenery around were old reminiscences. 
From the high tower of the castle I looked far and wide over 
the richly fertile Marskland, where the fat cattle wade in the 
summer up to their shoulders in grass. I looked over the 
many forests in which Ansgarius wandered, and preached 
the Christian religion to the Danish heathens. The little vil- 
lage of Willenscharen in this neighborhood still bears evi- 
dences of his name ; there was his mansion, and there he 
lived ; the church close by Heiligenstadte, where the ground 



6 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

was grown up around the walls, is also from his time ; and 
it is still, as it was then, reflected in the Storen, over which he 
rowed in his miserable fishing-boat to the little path between 
the reeds. 

I wandered in the castle garden under the old trees, by the 
winding canals ; elder-trees and rose-bushes bent themselves 
over the watery mirror to see how prettily they flowered. The 
gamekeeper with his dog took his way into the copper-colored 
forest. The post-horn clanged, and it was as if wood and field 
were made vocal, and joined in the death-hymn of autumn : 
« Great Pan is dead ! " 

When the sun was down, the sound of glass and song was 
heard in the castle. I wandered through the saloon, whose 
dark red walls encompass bass-reliefs by Thorwaldsen, and 
give relief to the beautiful busts and statues. A hedge of 
roses and sweet-briers outside leaned up against the windows 
with its leafless branches, and it dreamt of the summer life 
within the saloon — that it was itself young and flourishing — 
and that every brier was a bud that would open itself on the 
morrow. The brownie sat on the edge of the well, and kept 
time with his small feet ; the little bird twittered, " It is pretty 
in the North ! — it is well to be in the North ! " and yet the 
bird flew to the warm lands, — and the poet did the same. 



III. 

A REMINISCENCE FROM THE STEAMBOAT " STOREN." . 

By the waters of the Storen there lay two small houses, one 
on each side of the river, each of them snug and pretty, with 
a green gable and a few bushes ; but outside the one hung 
an outstretched net, and a large vane turned itself in the wind. 
How often had not two pretty eyes looked from one of these 
small houses over to this vane when it turned itself, and a 
faithful heart then sighed deeply. 

We took a pretty young woman on board here ; she was of 
what we call the lower class, but so neatly dressed, so young, 
so pretty, and with a beautiful little child at the breast. The 



REMINISCENCE FROM THE STEAMBOAT ''STOREN." J 

good folks nodded to her from both the houses, — they wished 
her joy and happiness ! The weather-cock turned so that it 
creaked, but her pretty eyes did not look up to it ; for now 
she did not care to know which way the wind blew! and so 
away we went. All was green, but flat, and always the same 
on each side • the little river runs in one continued curve. 

We were now on the Elbe, that great high-road from Ger- 
many ; and vessels came and went on it. Our boat darted 
across ; we went over to the Hanoverian side to fetch passen- 
gers, and then to the Holstein side, and then again to the 
Hanoverian, and yet we got no passengers. I looked at the 
young woman ; she seemed to be equally as impatient as my- 
self; she was always at the forepart of the vessel, and looking 
intently forward, with her hand over those pretty eyes. Was 
it the towers of Hamburg she sought ? She kissed her child, 
and smiled, yet tears were in her eyes ! Two steam-vessels 
darted past us ; and a ship in fult sail was taking emigrants 
to America. Before us lay a magnificent vessel ; it had come 
direct from thence, and was now sailing up against the wind. 
The flag waved ! as we approached, a boat was let loose ; four 
sailors seized the oars ; a strong, active, black-bearded man, 
who appeared to be the steersman on board, took the rudder ; 
we lay still, and the young wife flew, rather than ran, with her 
sleeping child. In a moment she was in the light, rocking 
boat, and in the arms of that black-haired, sunburnt man. 

That was a kiss ! that was the bouquet of a long year's 
sweet longing : and the child awoke and cried, and the man 
kissed it, and took his wife around the waist ; and the boat 
swung up and down, as if it sprang with joy, and the brown 
sailors nodded to each other, — but we sailed away, and I 
looked on the flat and naked shores. 



8 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

IV. 

LISZT. 

It was in Hamburg, in the hotel Stadt London, that Liszt 
gave a concert. In a few moments the saloon was quite filled. 
I came too late, yet I got the best place, close up to the 
tribune where the piano-forte stood, for they conducted me 
up the back stairs. 

Liszt is one of the kings in the realm of tones ; and my 
friends, as I said, — for I am not ashamed to acknowledge it, 
— conducted me to him up one of the back stairs. 

The saloon, and even the side rooms gleamed with lights, 
gold chains, and diamonds. Not far from where I stood lay 
a fat, dressed-out young Jewess on a sofa ; she resembled a 
walrus with a fan. Wealthy Hamburg merchants stood walled 
up against each other as if it were an important matter " on 
Change " that was to be discussed. A smile sat on their 
mouths, as if they had all bought Exchequer bills and railway 
shares, and gained immensely. 

The Orpheus of mythology could set stones and trees in 
motion with his music. The modern Orpheus, Liszt, had 
electrified them already ere he played. Fame, with her many 
tongues, had opened the eyes and ears of the multitude, so 
that all seemed to recognize and hear what was to follow. I 
myself felt in the beams of those many sparkling eyes an ex- 
pectant palpitation of the heart, on the approach of this great 
genius, who with magic fingers defines the boundaries of his 
art in our age ! 

Our age is no longer that of imagination and feeling ; it 
is the age of intellect. The technical dexterity in every art 
and in every trade is now a general condition of their exer- 
cise ; languages have become so perfected that it almost be- 
longs to the art of writing themes to be able to put one's 
thoughts in verse, which half a century ago would have passed 
for a true poet's work ; in every large town we find persons 
by the dozen who execute music with such an expertness, that 
twenty years ago they might have been accounted virtuosi. 



LISZT. g 

All that is technical, the material as well as the spiritual, is in 
this our age in its highest development. 

Our world's geniuses, — are they not the modern scum or 
foam wrought on the ocean of our age's development ? But 
real spirits must be able to suffer a critical dissection, and 
raise themselves far above that which can be acquired : each 
in his intellectual sphere must not only complete the work, 
but add something more. They must, like the coral insect, 
make an addition to art, or their activity is as nothing. 

In the musical world our age has two pianists who thus fill 
their allotted place — they are Thalberg and Liszt. 

When Liszt entered the saloon, it was as if an electric 
shock passed through it. Most of the ladies rose ; it was as 
if a ray of sunlight passed over every face, as if all eyes re- 
ceived a dear, beloved friend. 

I stood quite near to the artist : he is a meagre young man, 
his long dark hair hung around his pale face ; he bowed to 
the auditory, and sat down to the piano. The whole of Liszt's 
exterior and movements show directly one of those persons 
we remark for their peculiarities alone ; the Divine hand has 
placed a mark on them which makes them observable amongst 
thousands. As Liszt sat before the piano, the first impres- 
sion of his personality was derived from the appearance of 
strong passions in his wan face, so that he seemed to me a 
demon who was nailed fast to the instrument from whence the 
tones streamed forth, — they came from his blood, from his 
thoughts ; he was a demon who would liberate his soul from 
thralldom ; he was on the rack, the blood flowed, and the 
nerves trembled ; but as he continued to play, the demon 
disappeared. I saw that pale face assume a nobler and 
brighter expression ; the divine soul shone from his eyes, from 
every feature ; he became beauteous as spirit and enthusiasm 
can make their worshippers. 

His " Valse Infernale " is more than a daguerreotype pic- 
ture of Meyerbeer's " Robert le Diable ! " We do not stand 
apart and contemplate this well known picture ; we gaze 
fixedly into its depths, and discover new whirling figures. It 
sounded not like the chords of a piano ; no, every tone seemed 
like trickling water-drops. 



JO A POET'S BAZAAR. 

He who admires art in its technical dexterity must respect 
Liszt ; he who is charmed by his genius must respect him 
still more. 

The Orpheus of our times has caused his tones to resound 
through the world's great emporium, and they found and ac- 
knowledged, as a Copenhagener has said, that, " his ringers 
are railroads and locomotives ; " his genius still mightier in 
drawing together the intellectual spirits of the universe than 
all the railways on earth. The modern Orpheus has caused 
the European counting-house to resound with his tones, and 
at that moment at least, the people believed the Evangelist : 
the gold of the spirit has a mightier sound than the world's. 

We often hear the expression " a flood of tones," without 
defining it ; but it is indeed a " flood " which streams from 
the piano where Liszt sits. The instrument appears to be 
changed into a whole orchestra ; this is produced by ten fin- 
gers which possess an expertness that may be called fanatical 
— they are led by the mighty genius. It is a sea of tones, 
which, in its uproar, is a mirror for every glowing mind's 
momentary life's problem. I have met politicians who con- 
ceived that from Liszt's playing the peaceful citizen could be 
so affected by the tones of the Marseillaise Hymn as to seize 
the musket, fly from hearth and home, and fight for an idea. 
I have seen peaceful Copenhageners, with Danish autumn's 
mist in their blood, become political bacchanals from his 
playing ; and mathematicians have become dizzy with figures 
of tones and calculations of sounds. The young followers 
of Hegel — the really gifted, and not the empty-headed who 
only make a spiritual grimace at the galvanic stream of phi- 
losophy, beheld in this flood of tones the billowy-formed prog- 
ress of science toward the coast of perfection. The poet 
found in it his whole heart's lyric, or the rich garb for his 
most daring figures. The traveller, thus I gather from myself, 
gets ideas from tones of what he has seen, or shall see. I 
heard his music as an overture to my travels j I heard how 
my own heart beat and bled at the departure from home; 
I heard the billows' farewell — billows which I was not to 
hear again ere I saw the cliffs of Terracina. It sounded like 
the organ's tones from Germany's old minsters ; the avalanche 



THE MAID OF ORLEANS. I I 

rolled down from the Alpine hills, and Italy danced in her 
carnival dress, whilst her heart thought of Csesar, Horace, 
and Raphael ! Vesuvius and yEtna threw out their lava, and 
the last trumpet sounded from the mountains of Greece where 
the old gods died ; tones I knew not, tones I have no words 
to express, spoke of the East, the land of imagination, the 
poet's other father-land. 

When Liszt had ceased playing, flowers showered around 
him : beautiful young girls, and old ladies who had once been 
young and beautiful, cast each her bouquet. He had cast a 
thousand bouquets of tones into their hearts and heads. 

From Hamburg Liszt was to fly to London, there to throw 
out new bouquets of tones, which exhale poesy over that 
prosaic every-day life. That happy one, who can thus travel 
all his life, always see people in their poetical Sunday dress ! 
Yes, even in the inspired bridal dress ! Shall I again meet 
him ? was my last thought ; and chance would have it that 
we should meet on our travels, — meet at a place where my 
reader and I least could imagine ; meet, become friends, and 
again separate ; but it belongs to the last chapter of this 
flight. He went to Victoria's capital, and I to Gregory 
XVI.'s. 



THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 
A SKETCH. 

We were on the opposite side of the Elbe. The steam- 
boat glided down on the Hanoverian side between the low 
green islands, which presented us with prospects of farm- 
houses and groups of cattle. I saw happy children playing 
on the half-drawn up boats, and thought how soon this play 
must be over, how they would perhaps fly far forth into the 
world, and then would come the remembrance of these small 
flat islands, like the Hesperian gardens with their childhood's 
golden apples and oranges. 

We were now at Harburg : every one looked after his own 



12 A POETS BAZAAR. 

baggage, and saw it placed on the porter's barrow j but a tall 
and rather stout lady with a proud carriage not in harmony 
with her faded chintz gown, and a cloak which had certainly 
been turned more than once, shook her head at every porter 
who stretched out his hand to take her little travelling bag, 
which she held in her hand. It was a man's bag in every way, 
and she would not give it into other hands, for it was as if it 
contained a valuable treasure. She followed slowly after us 
all into the quiet town. 

A little table was laid for me and a fellow-traveller, and 
they asked us if a third could be permitted to take a place at 
the table. This third person arrived ; it was the lady in the 
faded gown ; a large boa, somewhat the worse for wear, hung 
loosely about her neck : she was very tired. 

" I have travelled the whole night," said she ; "I am an 
actress ! I come from Lubeck, where I performed last night ; " 
and she sighed deeply as she loosened her cap-strings. 

" What is your line ? " I asked. 

" The affecting parts," she replied ; and threw her long boa 
over one shoulder with a proud mien. "Last night I was 
The Maid of Orleans. I left directly after the close of the 
piece, for they expect me in Bremen. To-morrow I shall make 
my appearance there in the same piece ; " she drew her 
breath very deep, and threw the boa again over the other 
shoulder. 

She immediately ordered a carriage, as she intended to 
travel post ; but it was to be only a one horse chaise, or she 
would prefer one of the landlord's own, and a boy with her, for 
in case of need she could drive herself. " One must be eco- 
nomical, particularly in travelling," said she. I looked at her 
pale face ; she was certainly thirty years of age, and had been 
very pretty j she still played The Maid of Orleans, and only 
the affecting parts. 

An hour afterward I sat in the diligence ; the horn clanged 
through the dead streets of Harburg ; a little cart drove on 
before us. It turned aside, and stopped for us to pass \ I 
looked out, it was " The Maid of Orleans " with her little bag 
between her and a boy, who represented the coachman. She 
greeted us like a princess, and kissed her hand to us \ the 



THE RAILROAD. I 3 

long boa waved over her shoulders. Our postilion played a 
merry tune, but I thought of " The Maid of Orleans," the old 
actress on the cart, who was to make her entry into Bremen on 
the morrow, and I became sad from her smile and the postilion's 
merry tones. And thus we each went our way over the heath. 



VI. 

THE RAILROAD. 

As many of my readers have not seen a railroad, I will 
first endeavor to give them an idea of such a thing. We will 
take an ordinary high-road : it may run in a straight line, or it 
may be curved, that is indifferent ; but it must be level — level 
as a parlor floor, and for that purpose we blow up every rock 
which stands in the way ; we build a bridge on strong arches 
over marshes and deep valleys, and when the level road stands 
clearly before us, we lay down iron rails where the ruts would 
be, on which the carriage wheels can take hold. The locomo- 
tive is placed in front, with its conductor or driver on it, who 
knows how to direct and stop its course ; wagon is chained 
to wagon, with men or cattle in them, and so we travel. 

At every place on the way they know the hour and the min- 
ute that the train will arrive ; one can also hear, for miles, the 
sound of the signal whistle, when the train is coming : and 
round about where the by-roads cross the railway the guard 
or watchman puts down a bar, so as to prevent those who are 
driving or walking from crossing the road at a time when the 
train is approaching ; and the good folks must wait until it 
has passed. Along the road, as far as it extends, small houses 
are built, so that those who stand as watchmen may see each 
other's flag and keep the railroad clear in time, so that no 
stone or twig lie across the rails. 

See, that is a railroad ! I hope that I have been under- 
stood. 

It was the first time in my life that I had seen such a one. 
For half a day and the succeeding night, I had travelled with 
the diligence on that horribly bad road from Brunswick to 



j 4 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

Magdeburg, and arrived at the latter place quite tired out, and 
an hour afterward I had to set out again on the railroad. 

I will not deny that I had previously a sort of feeling which 
I will call railway-fever, and this was at its height when I en- 
tered the immense building from whence the train departs. 
Here was a crowd of travellers, a running with portmanteaus 
and carpet-bags, and a hissing and puffing of engines, out of 
which the steam poured forth. At first we know not rightly 
where we dare stand, fearing that a carriage, or a boiler, or a 
baggage chest might come flying over us. It is true that one 
Stands safely enough on a projecting balcony ; the carriages we 
are to enter are drawn up in a row quite close to it, like gondo- 
las by the side of a quay, but down in the yard the one rail 
crosses the other like magic ties invented by human skill j to 
these ties our magic car should confine itself, for if it come out 
of them life and limb are at stake. I gazed at these wagons, at 
the locomotives, at loose baggage wagons, and Heaven knows 
what ; they ran amongst each other as in a fairy world. Every- 
thing seemed to have legs ; and then the steam and the noise 
united with the crowding to get a place, the smell of tallow, the 
regular movement of the machinery, and the whistling, snort- 
ing, and snuffing of the steam as it was blown off, increased 
the impression ; and when one is here for the first time, one 
thinks of overturnings, of breaking arms and legs, of being 
blown into the air, or crushed to death by another train ; but 
I think it is only the first time one thinks of all this. The 
train formed three divisions ; the first two were comfortably 
closed carriages, quite like our diligences, only that they were 
much broader ; the third was open and incredibly cheap, so 
that even the poorest peasant is enabled to travel by it : it is 
much cheaper for him than if he were to walk all the distance, 
and refresh himself at the ale-house, or lodge on the journey. 
The signal whistle sounds, but it does not sound well ; it bears 
no small resemblance to the pig's dying song, when the knife 
passes through its throat. We get into the most comfortable 
carriage, the guard locks the door and takes the key ; but we 
can let the window down and enjoy the fresh air without being 
in danger of suffocation : we are just the same here as in an- 
other carriage, only more at ease : we can rest ourselves, if 
we have made a fatiguing journey shortly before. 



THE RAILROAD. 



15 



The first sensation is that of a very gentle motion in the 
carriages, and then the chains are attached which bind them 
together ; the steam whistle sounds again, and we move on ; 
at first but slowly, as if a child's hand drew a little carriage. 
The speed increases imperceptibly, but you read in your book, 
look at your map, and as yet do not rightly know at what 
speed you are going, for the train glides on like a sledge over 
the level snow-field. You look out of the window and dis- 
cover that you are careering away as with horses at full gallop ; 
it goes still quicker ; you seem to fly, but here is no shaking, 
no suffocation, nothing of what you anticipated would be un- 
pleasant. 

What was that red thing which darted like lightning close 
past us ? It was one of the watchmen who stood there with 
his flag. Only look out ! and the nearest ten or twenty yards 
you see, is a field which looks like a rapid stream ; grass and 
plants run into each other. We have an idea of standing 
outside the globe, and seeing it turn round ; it pains the eye 
to keep it fixed for a long time in the same direction ; but 
when you see some flags at a greater distance, the other ob- 
jects do not move quicker than they appear to do when we 
drive in an ordinary way, and further in the horizon everything 
seems to stand still ; one has a perfect view and impression of 
the whole country. 

This is just the way to travel through flat countries ! It is 
as if town lay close to town ; now comes one, then another. 
One can imagine the flight of birds of passage, — they must 
leave towns behind them thus. 

Those who drive in carriages, on the by-roads, seem to stand 
still ; the horses appear to lift their feet, but to put them down 
again in the same place — and so we pass them. 

There is a well known anecdote of an American, who, trav- 
elling for the first time on a railroad, and seeing one mile- 
stone so quickly succeed another, thought he was speeding 
through a church-yard, and that he saw the monuments. I 
should not cite this, but that it — with a little trans-atlantic 
license, to be sure — characterizes the rapidity of this manner 
of travelling ; and I thought of it, although we do not see any 
mile-stones here. The red signal flags might stand for them., 



1 6 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

and the same American might have said, " Why is every one 
out to-day with a red flag ? " 

I can, however, relate a similar story. As we sped past 
some railings that appeared to me to be a pole, a man who 
sat beside me said, " See ! now we are in the principality of 
Cothen," and then he took a pinch of snuff, and offered me 
his box : I bowed, took a pinch, sneezed, and then asked : 
" How far are we now in Cothen ? " — " O," replied the man, 
" we left it behind us while you were sneezing ! " 

And yet the trains can go twice as quickly as they did on 
this occasion ; every moment one is at a fresh station, where 
the passengers are set down and others taken up. The speed 
of the whole journey is thus diminished : we stop a minute, 
and the waiter gives us refreshments through the open window, 
light or solid, just as we please. Roasted pigeons literally fly 
into one's mouth for payment, and then we hurry off; chatter 
with our neighbor, read a book, or cast an eye on nature with- 
out, where a herd of cows turn themselves round with astonish- 
ment, or some horses tear themselves loose from the tether 
and gallop away, because they see that twenty carriages can 
be drawn without their assistance, and even quicker than if 
they should have to draw them, and then we are again sud- 
denly under a roof where the train stops. We have come 
seventy miles in three hours, and are now in Leipsic. 

Four hours after, on the same day, it again proceeds the 
same distance in the same time, but through mountains and 
over rivers ; and then we are in Dresden. 

I have heard many say that on a railroad all the poetry of 
travelling is lost, and that we lose sight of the beautiful and 
interesting. As to the last part of this remark, I can only say 
that every one is free to stay at whatever station he chooses, 
and look about him until the next train arrives ; and as to all 
the poetry of travelling being lost, I am quite of the contrary 
opinion. It is in the narrow, close-packed diligences that 
poetry vanishes : we become dull, we are plagued with heat 
and dust in the best season of the year, and in winter by bad, 
heavy roads j we do not see nature itself in a wider extent, 
but in longer draughts than in a railway carriage. 

O what a noble and great achievement of the mind is this 



GELLERT'S CRAVE. 



17 



production ! We feel ourselves as powerful as the sorcerers 
of old ! We put our magic horse to the carriage, and space 
disappears ; we fly like the clouds in a storm — as the bird of 
passage flies ! Our wild horse snorts and snuffs, and the dark 
steam rushes out of his nostrils. Mephistopheles could not 
fly quicker with Faust on his cloak ! We are, with natural 
means, equally as potent in the present age, as those in the 
Middle Ages thought that only the devil himself could be ! 
With our cunning we are as his side, and before he knows it 
himself we are past him. 

I can remember but a few times in my life that I ever felt 
myself so affected as I was on this railroad journey : it was thus 
with all my thoughts — that I beheld God face to face. I felt 
a devotion such as, when a child, I have felt in the church alone 
and when older, in the sun-illumined forest, or on the sea in a 
dead calm and starlight night. Feeling and Imagination are 
not the only ones that reign in the realm of poetry : they have 
a brother equally powerful ; he is called Intellect : he pro- 
claims the eternal truth, and in that greatness and poetry re- 
side. 



VII. 

gellert's grave. 

Gellert is buried in one of the church-yards in Leipsic. 
The first time I was in Germany, in the year 1830, I visited 
this grave ; Oehlenschlager's gifted daughter, Charlotte, was 
at that time on a visit to Brockhaus ; she conducted me tex- 
tile poet's grave. A thousand names were scratched on the 
grave-stone and cut in the wooden palings around it ; we also 
wrote our names. She broke off a rose from the grave, and 
gave it me as a remembrance of the place. 

Ten years afterward I came this way alone. I found the- 
church-yard easily enough ; but the grave itself I could not 
find. I asked a poor old woman where Gellert was buried,, 
and she showed me the place. " Good men are always sought 
for," said the old woman ; " he was a great man ! " and she 
looked on the simple grave with peaceful devotion. I sought 



I 8 A POETS BAZAAR. 

amongst the many written names for the two that were in- 
scribed when I was last here ; but the railings had been lately 
painted over, perhaps painted several times since then. New 
names were written, but the name on the grave-stone — Gel- 
lert's name — remained the same. It will be discovered there 
when those lately written have disappeared and new ones 
are inscribed again \ the immortal name stands, the names of 
mankind are blotted out. The old woman broke off a rose 
for me, a rose as young and fresh as that which Charlotte 
herself, in all the freshness of youth, gave to me at the same 
place ; and I thought of her as I saw her then before me ; she, 
that fresh rose, who is now in the grave ! She whose soul 
and mind breathed life's gladness and the ardor of youth ! 
This time I wrote not my name on the railing : I placed the 
white rose in my breast, and my thoughts were with the dead. 



VIII. 

NUREMBERG. 

Wenn einer Deutschland kennen 
Und Deutschland lieben soil, 
Darf man ihm Niirnberg nennen, 
Der edlen Kiinste voll ; 
Die nimmer nicht veraltet, 
Die treue fleiss'ge Stadt; 
Wo Durer's Kunst gewaltet, 
Und Sachs gesungen hat. 

SCHENKENDORF. 

The history of Casper Hauser bears the stamp of a previous 
century ; nay, however true we know it to be, we cannot 
exactly think of it as something that occurred in our time ; 
yet it performs a part in it, and amongst the large towns of 
Germany, as chance would have it, Nuremberg was the scene 
of this strange adventure. 

It is said of Kotzebue, that he wrote " The Cross Knights," 
to make the scenery and decorations of the theatre available ; 
even so we may almost imagine that Casper Hauser was de- 



NUREMBERG. 1 9 

signed for the city of Nuremberg ; for, if we except Augsburg, 
no city from its exterior leads us back into the Middle Ages 
so impressively as the free, old " Reichsstadt," Nuremberg. 
Several years ago, when I was in Paris, I saw a panorama by 
Daguerre, — who has since become so famous, — which, if I 
recollect rightly, represented the Dey of Algiers's summer pal- 
ace ; from the flat roof one looked over the gardens, the moun- 
tains, and the Mediterranean ; but in order to prepare and 
bring the spectators into the proper mood, we had to pass 
through some rooms which were fitted up in the Oriental style, 
and we looked through small windows over the top of a palm- 
tree or high cactuses. I was reminded of this arrangement 
as we rolled into Nuremberg through ancient France. 

From the moment we reached the city of Hof in Bavaria, 
everything begins, by degrees, to sustain that fantasy which, 
in Nuremberg, expands into dreams of the Middle Ages, and 
which finds there a correct and well-arranged scene for its vis- 
ionings. 

After passing Miinchberg, we were in the mountains ; and 
the country around displayed a more romantic character. It 
was in the evening light. The mountain " der Ochsenkopf," 
the largest here, was quite hidden by the misty clouds ; the 
road became narrower and dark ; at Bernech it was quite in- 
closed by steep cliffs ; to the left, at some yards above us, stood 
a ruined tower, which in ancient times certainly commanded 
the entrance to this place. Bernech itself, with its uneven 
streets, the lights that moved about within the old houses ; the 
postilion's music, which sounded as melancholy as the tune 
of an old ditty — everything breathed the spirit of romance. 

I felt inclined to put words to these minor tones, — words 
about the Robber Knight who lay on the watch in the old 
tower whilst the Nuremberg merchants passed the ravine 
with their wares ; words of the attack in the moonlight night, 
as the red and white Main saw it, and afterward related it to 
brother Rhine under the vine-crowned shores. 

We passed through Bayreiith, Jean Paul's town, and in the 
gay light of morning we saw the large city of Nuremberg. 

When I came quite near to it, its old grass-grown moats, its 
double walls, the many gates with towers in the form of up- 



20 " A POET'S BAZAAR. 

right cannons, the well-built streets, magnificent walls, and 
Gothic buildings constrained me to acknowledge, " Thou art 
yet Bavaria's capital ! It is true thou wert compelled to give 
thy crown to Munich • but thy royal dignity, thy peculiar 
greatness, thou bearest still ! Under thy sceptre, civic indus- 
try, art, and science went hand in hand together ; far and 
wide sounded the strokes of Adam Kraft's hammer, and the 
bells of Master Conrad and Andreas ; Albert Diirer's genius 
sounds the praise of Nuremberg's name louder than the shoe- 
maker Hans Sachs could do it, although he had an immortal 
voice. Peter Fischer caused the metal to flow in bold and 
beauteous figures as they presented themselves to his imag- 
ination ; Regiomontan raised thy name to the skies, whilst thy 
children, through him, became greater, comprehending and 
appreciating the useful and the noble. The marble was chis- 
eled into graceful statues, and the wooden block transformed 
into a work of art. 

The postilion blew his horn through the streets of Nurem- 
berg. The houses are diversely built, and yet are stamped 
with the same character ; they are all old, but well preserved ; 
most of them are painted green, and some have images in the 
walls; others are furnished with projecting bow-windows, and 
balconies ; others again have Gothic windows with small octag- 
onal panes, inclosed in thick walls ; on the pointed roofs are 
seen rows of windows, the one standing above the other, and 
each surmounted by a little tower. The water of the foun- 
tains falls into large metal basins, surrounded by wrought iron 
balustrades of a tasteful form. But such things are not to be 
described, they must be drawn ! Had I talent to have done 
it, I would have placed myself on the old stone bridge over 
the river whose yellow water hurries rapidly on, and there 
would have depicted the singular projecting houses. The old 
Gothic building yonder on arches, under which the water 
streams, stands prominently over the river, adjoining a little 
hanging garden with high trees and a flowering hedge ! Could 
I paint, I would go into the market, force my way through the 
crowd, and sketch the fountain there ; it is not so elegant as 
in the olden times with its rich gilding, but all the splendid 
bronze figures stand there yet. The seven Electoral Princes, 



NUREMBERG. 2 1 

Judas Maccabeus, Julius Caesar, Hector, and others of like 
illustrious names. Sixteen of them adorn the first row of col- 
umns, and above these Moses stands forth with all the proph- 
ets. Were I a painter, I would go to the tomb of St. Sebal- 
dus, when the sunlight falls through the stained glass win- 
dows on the statues of the Apostles, cast in bronze by Peter 
Fischer, and the church and tomb should be drawn as they 
were reflected in my eyes : but I am not a painter, and can- 
not delineate them. I am a poet ; accordingly I inquired 
for Hans Sach's house, and they showed me into a by-street, 
and pointed to a house ; it had the old form, but it was a new 
house. Hans Sach's portrait hung there, with his name under 
it ; but it was not the house where he lived and made shoes. 
It is the site, but everything upon it is new. The portrait 
proclaims that it is a tavern bearing his name for its sign. 
Six thousand two hundred and sixty-three comedies, tragedies, 
songs, and ballads, are said to have been written here ! 1 

From the poet's house I went to the King's palace, and this 
building admirably harmonizes with the old city of Nurem- 
berg. Knightly splendor without and comfort within ! There 
are high walls : the court-yard itself is narrow, but the large 
linden-tree that grows there has a fragrance which makes the 
place cheerful. The small rooms, where so much that is great 
has occurred, seem to dilate as we contemplate them ; for 
every spot here has a peculiar interest of its own. 2 The 
richly-painted arms in the ceiling, the old pictures of saints, 
their . heads surmounted by their stiff golden glories, with 
which the walls are ornamented, confer even upon the small- 
est chamber a sort of grandeur that the mind gives to every- 
thing by which fancy is set in motion. 

The stoves are all of clay, large and painted green • they 

1 Hans Sachs was born in 1495, and died the 20th of January, 1576. 

2 In one of the rooms there hangs a large gilt frame, inclosing a small 
poem, which contains the following thought ; it has been written of late 
years by a book-binder named Schneer, a citizen of Nuremberg. The 
verse is as follows : — 

1 ' Enge wohnte man sonst, weit war es aber im Herzen, 
Also ertonte uns jiingst ' Ludwig's ' begeisterter Spruch 
Drum — ist klein auch die Burg, in der einst die Kaiser gewohnet, 
Fiihlt sich gewiss hier Sein Herz heimisch im engen Gemach." 



22 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

might, with their thousands of gilded figures, Christian and 
heathen images, supply material for strange stcfries. What 
evenings might not a child enjoy and dream away, when the 
fire in the stove lights up these heraldic painted walls, and 
the gilded figures step forth and disappear again, just as the 
flames fall on them, or are withdrawn from them. From that 
child's imaginings Brentano could compose a deathless story 
for us. 

Whilst I was thinking of this, the keeper led me about, 
and repeated the names and the dates of the various subjects. 
I looked at his little boy who followed us, but who stopped 
every moment to play near a window. I would much rather 
have sat with the little fellow and heard him relate realities 
or dreams — and in fact most of the tales that are told us by 
older persons and called historical are nothing else than the 
latter. I could have wished to have stood with him in the 
moonlight and looked over the old Gothic town, whose towers 
point toward the stars as if they would interpret them ; to 
have looked over the plain whence the postilion's horn sounds, 
and then thought of Wallenstein's troopers who sounded here 
to battle : in the mist that soars over the meadows, I could 
fancy I saw the Swedish troopers who fought for their faith. 

I should like to sit with the little one under the linden- 
tree in the narrow palace yard, and see with him what the 
legend says of Eppelin, the wild Knight of Gailingen. From 
his castle he could witness every expedition of the Nuremberg 
merchants as they went with their wares to the city, and 
like the falcon dart upon his prey ; but the falcon was now 
caught, the wild knight pined in this castle where the linden- 
tree grows ; his last morning came, and he was permitted, 
according to the good old custom always allowed the con- 
demned, that before his death he might have a wish granted, 
and the knight begged that he might once more ride his 
faithful steed. 

The horse neighed with pleasure, and proudly bore his 
master round the little yard : and the knight stroked its 
powerful and slender neck. The muscles of the noble ani- 
mal appeared to swell, its hoofs struck the pavement ; more 
and more vigorous and rapid, it hurried on in a circle, so 



NUREMBERG. 23 

that the warder and the soldiers had to keep themselves 
close to the wall to afford it space ; and they did so without 
fear, for they knew the castle gate was well secured, and that 
the knight could not escape. Yet, if they could have read 
in the horse's eye what was there to read, says the chron- 
icle, they would have stopped the steed in its flight, and 
bound the strong hands of the wild knight. And what stood 
in its eye ? It spoke its dumb but fiery language : — 

"In this wretched court thy knightly blood ought not to 
flow ! Here thy active, merry life ought not to end ! Shall 
I no longer bear thee in the gay battle, through the deep 
ravines and the green forests? Shall I no longer eat the 
corn from thy brave hand ? Trust to my immense strength, 
and I will save thee ! " 

And the steed reared, the knight struck his spurs in its 
sides, drew his breath hard, bent himself over its neck, — 
sparks flew from its iron-shod hoofs, and half the miracle 
was done, for the horse stood on the battlements, and a mo- 
ment after they both flew over the broad moat, and were 
saved. When the wind blows through the leaves of the lin- 
den-tree it tells of it. 

Below the castle, in a street close by, is an old house of 
three stories, the one projecting a little over the other. Every 
stranger stops to look at it. In the front room hang shields 
with armorial bearings, sent from the different towns in Ba- 
varia. What house is this ? We go but a few paces round 
the corner, and in the little square stands the statue of its 
owner : the metal glitters in the sun ; it is Albert Diirer's 
monument by Rauch. 1 

The energetic mind that lived in Regiomontan, Albert 
Diirer, and Peter Fischer, has not departed ; there are vigor 
and industry in this city. 

1 The monument was erected on the 21st of May, 1840, the younger 
portion of the community singing enthusiastic songs ; and at the illumi- 
nation which took place the following inscription was seen on Diirer's 
house : — 

" In diesem Hause schuf einst Diirer seine Werke 
Und hier that ihm die Kunst den Freudenhimmel auf, 
Und hoher stieg er stets mit neuer Kraft und Starke — 
Er lebte, liebte, litt, und — schlosz hier seinem Lauf." 



J 4 A POETS BAZAAR. 

It is true, during my short stay I only became acquainted 
with one house, but all within bore the stamp of what we 
call the good old times. The master of this house was the 
picture of honesty and sagacity, a man such as the people 
represent their old citizens to have been. 

Nuremberg resembles some few strong old men, in whom 
youth still remains, in whom thought is yet active, and lively, 
and enterprising. The railroad from Nuremberg to Fiirth is 
a striking example of this, for that railroad was the first 
laid down in Germany. Old Nuremberg was the first city 
that entered into the gigantic idea of the new time — that of 
uniting towns and cities by steam and iron ties. 



IX. 

A WISH ACCOMPLISHED. 

When I was a child, I had a little show-box in which 
all the pictures were cut out of an old book ; every picture 
represented a Gothic building, a cloister or a church, and 
outside were finely sculptured fountains ; but on each of 
them I read a name at the bottom, and this name was on 
them all : " Augsburg." 

How often have I not looked at these pictures and wandered 
in thought amongst them ; but I could never rightly get to 
know what was behind the street corner. And now — now I 
stood in the midst of these pictures' realities ; I was in 
Augsburg itself! and the more I looked at the old houses 
with their walls painted in variegated colors, the jagged 
gables, the old churches and statues around the fountains, 
the more it appeared to me to be a piece of enchantment. 
I was now in the midst of the show-box, and had got my 
childhood's wish accomplished. If I desired, I could get to 
know what there was behind the street corner. 

I knew this street corner again ; I went round it. I found 
— pictures, and those such as I had no idea of when a child, 
which not even the world knew of at that time. Here was an 
exhibition of daguerreotype pictures, which a painter named 



A WISH ACCOMPLISHED. 2$ 

Iseuring from St. Gallen had opened. There were but few 
landscapes and architectural pieces, but a number of portraits 
of different sizes, all taken by the daguerreotype. They were 
excellent : one could see that they must be likenesses ; it was 
as if one looked at the originals " in little " on a steel plate on 
which they were engraved ; and every feature was so exactly 
shown that even the eye had a clearness and expression. The 
most felicitous delineation was in the silk dresses of the ladies ; 
it seemed as if one could hear them rustle. There were 
also some few attempts to give the portraits color ; but they 
all appeared like faces by a strong fire-light ; there was too 
much of a red illumination. 

Did I not think thus when a child ? could I but get round 
that corner, I should get to see new pictures ; and I got to 
see new ones — the newest our time has given us. 

How did I not wish when I looked through the glass in the 
show-box : " O, that I could go up that broad flight of steps, 
and in through that old-fashioned door ! " I could now do 
so, and I did so, and stood in the lower hall of that splendid 
Town Hall, where bronze busts of Roman emperors gaze at 
the colossal eagle, which, like themselves, was cast in bronze, 
but more movable. Napoleon once commanded that it should 
fly to Paris. The Emperor's bird ought to be in the Emper- 
or's city ; and the bird flew, but on the frontiers, where the 
tower of Strasbourg stands like a guide-post, the eagle rested. 
At dawn of morning the Gallic cock crew, as the cock crowed 
when Peter betrayed his master. Great events had come to 
light ; then the eagle flew back again to old Augsburg, where 
it still sits and meditates. That is what I saw when I went 
up the broad steps, and in through the large, old-fashioned 
door. 

" Could I but be amongst those buildings ! " was my wish 
when a child : and I came amongst them in the only likely 
and desirable manner, although it was some years after that 
my wish was accomplished ; but it was so nevertheless I I 
was in Augsburg. 



26 A POETS BAZAAR. 

X. 

MUNICH. 

The ancient portion of the city of Munich appears to me 
like an ancient rose-tree, from which new branches shoot 
out every year j but every branch is a street, every leaf is a 
palace, a church, or a monument ; and everything appears so 
new, so fresh, for it has but this moment unfolded itself. 

Under the Alps, where the hop-vines creep over the high 
plains, lies the Athens of Germany. It is cheap to live 
here ; many treasures of art are to be seen, and I have here 
found many amiable persons who are now dear to me ; but yet 
I would not live here, for the cold is more severe than in Den- 
mark. The cold from the Alps sweeps with an icy chill over 
the highlands of Bavaria, and where the Alps themselves 
beckon us, like the Venus Mountain, as it sings, " Come 
hither ! come hither ! " Behind these bold, dark-blue moun- 
tains lies Italy. 

Every city, from Rome the eternal to our own silent Soro, 
has its own peculiar character with which one can be intimate, 
even attach one's self to ; but Munich has something of all 
places : we know not if we are in the south or the north. I 
at least felt a disquiet here, a desire to leave it again. 

Should any one fancy that my description of Munich con- 
tains crude and contradictory images, then I have given the 
most just picture according to the impression that the town 
has made on me. Everything here appeared to me to be a 
contradiction. Here were Catholicism and Protestantism. 
Grecian art and Bavarian ale. Unity I have not found here : 
every handsome detail appears to have been taken from its 
original home and placed in and about old Munich, which is 
a town like a hundred others in Germany. The Post-office, 
with its red painted walls and hovering figures, is taken from 
Pompeii ; the new Palace is a copy of the Duke of Tuscany's 
palace in Florence, — each stone is like that of the other. 
The Au Church with its stained glass windows, its colossal 
lace-like tower, in which every thread is a huge block of stone, 



MUNICH. 



?7 



reminds us of St. Stephen's Church in Vienna ; whilst the 
court chapel, with its mosaic pictures on a gilt ground, wafts 
us to Italy. I found but one part in Munich that can be called 
great and characteristic, and that is Ludwig Street. The 
buildings here in different styles of architecture blend together 
in a unity, as the most different flowers form a beautiful gar- 
land. The Gothic-built University, the Italian palaces, even 
the garden close by, with its painted piazzas, supply a perfect 
whole. I think that if one drove through this street, and from 
thence to Schwanthaler's and Kaulbach's ateliers, one would 
receive the best picture of what Munich is intended to be ; 
but if one will see it as it really is, one must also go into the 
" Bockkeller," where the thriving citizens are sitting with their 
tankards, and eating radishes and bread, whilst the youths 
dance to the violin : one must go through the long streets 
which are building, or, more properly speaking, along the 
high-road, where they are planting houses. 

Most of the young artists who travel southward make a 
long stay in Munich, and afterward speak of their sojourn 
there with much enthusiasm. 

But that they remain here so long, may be attributed to the 
cheapness of the living ; and if they come direct from the 
North, Munich is the first town where there is much to be 
seen. Most true artists are natural and amiable ; a mutual 
love for their art binds them together, and in excellent Bava- 
rian ale, which is not dear, they drink to that good fellowship 
which in remembrance casts a lustre on that city, and forms 
the background of many a dear reminiscence. 

King Ludwig of Bavaria's love of art has called forth all 
that we term beautiful in Munich ; under him talent has found 
encouragement to unfold its wings. King Ludwig is a poet, 
but he works not alone with pen and ink, for things of magni- 
tude he executes in marble and colors. His " Valhalla " is a 
work of marble erected by the Danube, where it visits old Re- 
gensburg. I have seen, in Schwanthaler's atelier, the mighty 
figures intended to ornament the facade toward the Danube, 
and which, when placed in juxtaposition, represent the battle 
of Hermanus. Another composition of the same kind, and 
great in idea and expression, is the Main and Danube Canal, 



28 A POETS BAZAAR. 

whereby the German Ocean is united with the Black Sea. I 
saw also in Schwanthaler's atelier, the vignette title to this 
work — if I may presume so to call the monument — which 
represents the river-nymph Danube and the river-god Main. 

Konigsbau, which, as I before said, is in its exterior a copy 
of the Palazzo Pitti in Florence, has in the interior, if we 
except those rooms that are decorated in the Pompeiian 
style, and the magnificent Knights' saloon, with the gilded 
Electors, an odor of Germanism, which improves the fancy 
and elevates the thought. The walls shine with pictures of 
what Germany's bards have sung, and the people have felt 
and understood; the " Nibelungeniied " reveals itself here in 
bold outline \ the Diver ventures into the boiling deep ; Leo- 
nora rides in the moonlight with the dead, and the Elf-king 
lures the child as it rides through the wood with its father. 

A handsome spiral staircase leads to the flat roof of the 
palace, from whence we see the whole Isar plain and the 
Alps, which, with me at least, always awaken disquiet and 
a desire to travel : I thought I could trace my feelings in 
everything beneath me. The post-horn sounded, the dili- 
gence rolled away. I saw the smoke from the arrowy loco- 
motive, as it drew the train of carriages on the railway ; and 
down in the palace garden, where the river Isar branches 
off in different directions, the water rushed with a rapidity 
I have never seen equaled in any garden : " Away, away ! " 
was its cry. 

Even the streets and buildings in this new city will not, 
as yet, attach themselves to each other ; the Pinakothek, with 
its elevated windows in the roof, has, from the spot on which 
I am standing, the appearance of a large hot-house or con- 
servatory, and such it is ; there, as in the Glyptothek, we 
wander amongst the most beautiful productions of art, brought 
together from the four corners of the world. In the Pina- 
kothek are all the varieties of glowing plants, and the saloons 
are equally as gorgeous as the flowers ; in the Glyptothek 
stand the immortal figures by Scopas, Thorwaldsen, and Ca- 
nova, and the walls are resplendent with colors that will 
tell posterity of Cornelius, Zimmerman, and Schlotthauer. 

Near to Konigsbau is the theatre ; it is even joined to it 



MUNICH. 



?9 



by a small building. It is built on a very extended scale \ 
the machinery is admirable, and the decorations are splendid. 
But a bad custom exists here, that of destroying all the illusion 
by calling the actors forward. I never saw displayed a more 
flagrant instance of bad taste, than one evening during the 
performance of the opera of " Guido and Ginevra ; or, the 
Plague in Florence." In the fourth act of the piece the scene 
is divided in two parts : the lower part represents a vault, 
wherein Ginevra lies in her coffin, having, as is supposed, 
died of the plague \ the upper part of the scene represents 
the church, where they are singing masses over her tomb for 
the repose of her soul. The mourners depart, the church is 
dark and empty ; it is late in the night : Ginevra's trance is 
ended, she awakes and soon comprehends her dreadful sit- 
uation — she is buried alive. The music in this scene is 
highly expressive and effective ; with the greatest effort she 
drags herself up the stairs which lead to the church ; but the 
trap-door is fastened, she has not strength to raise it, and 
despairs. At that moment a crowd of sacrilegious robbers 
enter, for the plague rages in that large city, and all law, all 
affection and piety are annihilated J they even plunder the dead. 
They force their way into Ginevra's tomb, but are seized 
with horror on beholding the supposed corpse standing in 
the midst of them ; they kneel, and she once more attempts 
to ascend the stairs, and escape through the trap-door which 
the robbers had opened. She succeeds ; she stands in the 
church, and exclaims : " I am saved ! " and then leaves the 
stage. 

The lady performed very naturally, sang prettily, and the 
music is, as I have said, in the highest degree expressive ; 
but now the spectators began to shout and call her forward. 
Ginevra appeared again, and in order to express her thanks 
properly, she ran with marvelous ease through the church, 
down the stairs into the vault, toward the lamps, made her 
courtsey with the happiest face imaginable, and then hopped 
away back the same way she came, and where a minute 
before we saw her, as if half dead, dragging herself forward. 
For me, at least, the whole effect of that beautiful scene was 
from that moment destroyed. As to the rest, the plays 
performed here are good and interesting. 



30 A POETS BAZAAR. 

But I will now turn to the glorification of art in the cap- 
ital of Bavaria, and the names of Cornelius and Kaulbach 
stand preeminent. I will first speak of the younger of the two, 
Kaulbach. Every one who has lately been in Berlin, assuredly 
knows his famous painting, " Die Hunnenschlacht." I have 
heard several artists, though it is true they were persons who, 
according to my opinion, have not produced anything great, 
judge him very harshly, and describe him as proud and re- 
pulsive ; I nevertheless determined to pay a visit, to his 
atelier. I wished to see the man and his latest work, "The 
Destruction of Jerusalem," of which every one spoke differ- 
ently. Without any sort of letter of introduction, I set out for 
his atelier, which is situated in a remote part of the town near 
the river Isar. Passing over a little meadow inclosed with 
palings, I entered the foremost atelier. The first object that 
revealed itself to me was a living and very original picture, 
such as I had never before seen : a young girl, a model, lay 
in a sleeping position ; a number of young artists stood around 
her, one occupied with drawing, another playing the guitar 
and singing " Ora pro nobis," whilst a third had opened a 
bottle of champagne just as I entered. 

I asked for Kaulbach, and they showed me into a larger 
room close by, where the artist received me. Kaulbach is 
a young man, with an ingenuous face ; he is pale, and his 
features indicate suffering j but there lies a soul in those 
proud eyes, a cordiality, like that with which he received me, 
when I told him I was a stranger who had no one to introduce 
me to him, and therefore was obliged to present myself, and 
that I could not leave Munich without having seen his works. 
He asked my name, and when I told him, I was no longer a 
stranger; he shook my hand, bade me welcome, and a few 
minutes afterward we were like old friends. How much envy 
and folly was there in the judgment I had heard pronounced 
against this great artist ! He led me toward the cartoon 
for his last great picture, which is already renowned, " The 
Destruction of Jerusalem." This was the first time during 
my journey, the first time during my stay in Munich that I 
felt glad, charmed, and filled with great and powerful thoughts, 
and it was this picture that had cast such a ray of sunlight 



MUNICH. 3 1 

over my mind ! All that I had lately seen and found beautiful 
in the ateliers of other young artists, now appeared to me as 
sketches in comparison with this work. My feeling was akin 
to that a young man of susceptible imagination must expe- 
rience, when having read some trifling plays, poems, or every- 
day novels, he turns to the perusal of Dante's " Divina Corn- 
media," or Goethe's " Faust." There is something so great in 
these, that other productions, however finished they may be of 
their kind, under such circumstances would appear so inferior, 
that they would suddenly lose all the effect they in the first 
instance created. And yet it was only in the cartoon, and 
in miniature, that I saw this work of Kaulbach, which will 
assuredly forthwith take its place in the works of art — a 
place such as the world has long ago consented to concede 
to Michael Angelo's " Day of Judgment." 

The destruction of Jerusalem is dealt with in this picture 
as an epoch in the history of the world, as a circumstance of 
more than a general historic character. Thus Kaulbach has 
comprehended it and represented it, for he has gathered his 
materials from the prophets and Josephus. 

At the top of the picture we see, in the clouds, the figures 
of Isaiah, Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and Daniel, surrounded by a 
glory ; they prophesy the fall of Jerusalem, and show the peo- 
ple what is written in the Scriptures ; under the prophets are 
seen soaring the seven chastising angels, as executors of God's 
anger. We see the Jewish people's misery : the temple is in 
flames ; the city is taken ; the Romans plant their eagles 
around the holy altar, whilst Titus with the lictors enter over 
the fallen walls. In the foreground of the picture is seen the 
high-priest of the temple, who kills himself and his family on 
the fall of the sanctuary ; at his feet are the Levites, sitting 
and lying, with their harps — the same that sounded by the 
waters of Babylon when the thought of Zion still lived ; but 
they are now silent, for all is lost. 

To the right of the picture, a Christian family is leaving the 
city accompanied by two angels ; the waving palm-branches 
signify martyrdom j to the left is seen the Wandering Jew, 
chased out of the city by three demons : he is the representa- 
tive of the present Judaism — a people without home. 



32 



A POET'S BAZAAR. 



It is long since that a picture has made me thrill, and filled 
me with such thoughts as this picture gave me. The art- 
ist went through every particular ; showed me the detached 
studies : each in itself was a beautifully executed picture. 
Afterward I saw the sketch of his famed " Hunnenschlacht ; " 
how these giant spirits soar! how nobly Attila rises, borne 
on shields through the air ! I saw the drawings for Goethe's 
" Faust," and left the friendly artist with a high admiration of 
his talents, and a warm regard for his social qualities. 

One of the greatest works that Munich may be proud of 
from the hand of Cornelius, is certainly his " Day of Judg- 
ment," which is reposited in Ludwig's church. Six years ago 
I saw the cartoon to this picture in Rome, where I made the 
acquaintance of this great artist. It was two evenings before 
my departure for Naples that I was in the hostelry by the 
Piazza Barberini, and there met, amongst the Danes who 
were assembled, a German whom I had not seen before. He 
had piercing, intelligent eyes, was very eloquent, and entered 
into conversation with me about the newest German literature. 
We talked long together, and when he rose to depart, two of 
my countrymen asked him if they might visit his atelier next 
day, and see the cartoon for his latest work. 

" I do not much like it to be seen by many," answered he ; 
" but you may come, on condition that you bring this gentle- 
man with you as a card of admission," and he pointed to me. 

No one had told me who it was I had been conversing 
with : I only heard that he was a painter, and of painters 
there are plenty in Rome. I therefore thanked the gentle- 
man for his invitation, but said that I regretted I could not 
accept it, as I intended to leave Rome the following day, and 
being scant of time, I wished once more to visit the Borghese 
gallery. 

" You will come ! " said he with a smile, as he laid his hand 
on my shoulder, and went hastily away. 

He was scarcely out of the door, before some of my coun- 
trymen began to load me with abuse for what they called my 
unheard of incivility in refusing an invitation from — Corne- 
lius j I must have seen who he was in his eyes, and in his 
whole person, said they ! 



MUNICH. 33 

Now, I had not these qualities of discernment. However, 
I went with the others to visit him next day. He received 
me with a smile, and added : " Did I not say you would 
come ! " He then showed us the cartoon to that now famous 
painting, " The Day of Judgment." Our personal acquaint- 
ance was but transient ; it was in Munich first that I had occa- 
sion to value the worthy man, and to meet with friendship and 
cordiality from the great artist. 

Of small events, of which every man has always some to 
record if he stay in a strange town for a few weeks, I will 
mention one : on walking through the streets of Munich, a 
book-seller's shop attracted me, where I saw amongst the books 
exhibited in the window a German translation of my novel 
" The Improvisatore," included in " Miniaturbibliothek der 
auslandischen Classiker." I walked in, and asked for the 
book ; a young man delivered me a little volume which com- 
prised the first part. 

" But I wish to have the whole novel ! " said I. 

" That is the whole ! " he replied ; " there are no more parts. 
I have read it myself, sir ! " 

" Do you not find, then," I inquired, " that it ends rather 
abruptly j that we do not come to any conclusion ? " 

" O yes ! " said he, " but it is in that as in the French nov- 
els ! The author points out a conclusion, and leaves it to the 
reader to finish the picture for himself." 

" It is not the case here," I exclaimed ; " this is only the 
first part of the work that you have given me ! " 

" I tell you," said he, half angrily, " I have read it ! " 

" But I have written it ! " I replied. 

The man looked at me from top to toe ; he did not contra- 
dict me, but I could see in his face that he did not believe 
me. 

On one of the last evenings of my stay here, I knew that 
at home in Denmark, in that house where I am regarded as a 
son and brother, there was a marriage feast. It was late as I 
proceeded along the banks of the river Isar ; on the other side 
of the river was a crowd of merry young men ; they had a 
lighted torch before them, and the red flame trembled on the 
surface of the water. As they went on, they sang some lively 
3 



34 



A POET'S BAZAAR. 



German songs, whilst the stars glistened between the bare 
branches of the trees ; there was also song and torch-light 
in my heart. The carrier-dove will fly with my song to the 
North, to my home of homes, when I fly over to the Alps. 

At home thou sittest, sad with joyful face, 

Dressed in thy wedding gown, 
And a stranger I, in a foreign place, 

Am seeing the sights of the town. 
At the altar ye stand — he takes thy hand, 
Here's a song for you from the company gay ; 

There's the clinking of glasses 

And the singing of lasses ; 
But I — for you I'll pray. 

When in the home I've left behind 

Again shall I see thee ? 
A sister to me, gentle and kind — 

Let God's will be ! 
To-morrow I go o'er the Alpine snow, 
I'll think of you, where the roses stay, 

Of you, with your words of worth, 

Of you, with your dreams in the North, 
And then — for you I'll pray. 



XI. 

TYROL. 

All the mountains were covered with snow; the dark 
pines were as if powdered over ; to the left a dark va- 
cant stripe indicated the deep bed of the river Inn. From 
thence came clouds of exhalations ; they rolled forward like 
mists, and, driven by the wind, they sometimes concealed, and 
sometimes disclosed the sides of the snow-covered mountains 
and firs. 

The soldiers on the frontiers, in their large gray cloaks, 
clumsy woolen gloves, and muskets over their shoulders, met 
us in the fresh cold morning. 

We had left Seerfeldt, and were now on the highest point of 
the mountain ; we saw the whole valley of the Inn, far, far below 
us. The gardens and fields looked like the beds in a kitchen 



TYROL. 



35 



garden : the river Inn itself appeared to be a small kennel. 
Close to us, ruins round about, clouds and mountains, with 
sunshine and long intense shadows ; no, such things cannot 
be minutely drawn, and it is just that circumstance which gives 
them their greatest charm. 

Beyond the confines of reality this greatness can only reveal 
itself in remembrance, to the Tyrolese himself, when he, far 
away from his home in flat foreign lands, sings his simple me- 
lodious songs : yet there is one thing he misses, one thing that 
remembrance cannot restore, — it is that deep silence, that 
death-like stillness, which is increased by the monotonous 
creaking of the wheels in the snow, and by the screams of the 
birds of prey. 

Several years ago, when on my travels from Italy, I passed 
the same way and stayed some days at Innspruck. I made 
several tours in the mountains with a young Scotchman. He 
found much resemblance between nature here and at his home 
near Edinburgh. The children playing before the cottages, 
the springs that flow forth everywhere, the sound of bells 
around the necks of the cattle, all reminded him of home ; 
he became quite melancholy. And when I, in order to make 
the illusion stronger, began to sing a well known Scotch mel- 
ody, he burst into tears and became ill : we were obliged to 
sit down, and strange enough, on looking round I saw on a 
solitary spot between the bare cliffs a wooden monument on 
which some Hebrew letters were painted. I asked a herds- 
man who passed us what was the meaning of it ; and he told 
us that a Jew was buried there, that they had no church-yard 
for that sort of people, and therefore they had laid him there 
in the mountains ; but one of his creed, who travelled with 
him, had placed this monument there. This account set my 
fancy in as great emotion as the Scotchman's feelings had 
been on beholding the scenery, and yet I quite forgot this in- 
cident, which, like a fragrant flower, full of poesy, shot forth in 
a moment ! I had remembered a hundred other insignificant 
things, but not this ; and now on seeing Innspruck suddenly 
before me, on passing over that little mountain road I went 
up, and where the many springs still splashed, as on that even- 
ing, my thoughts were again called to life ; it was as if the 



36 



A POET'S BAZAAR. 



waters asked, " Do you remember it ? " It appeared to me as 
if but a few hours had passed since I was here, and I became 
thoughtful, and with good reason. How many reminiscences 
do there not slumber in our minds, how much that we would 
gladly have forgotten ; if now, at once, all these remembrances 
awake ! — I thought of the words of Scripture, " We shall give 
account for every idle word we have spoken ! " We shall re- 
remember them ! I believe that the mind forgets nothing ; 
everything can be again awakened, as fresh and living as in 
the moment it happened. Our thoughts, words, and actions 
are bulbs and roots we plant in the earth, and much of them 
we remember full well ; but when we come to the end, we 
turn round, and then see the whole in its bloom, and it is par- 
adise or hell that we recognize and own. 

Shall I draw Innspruck ? Then I must first show you a roar- 
ing stream, with many timber rafts steered by two or three 
men ; I must describe strong wooden bridges, and crooked 
streets with shops in the heavy-built arcades ; but one of the 
streets must be broad and showy, the sun must shine on the 
altars there, and on the gilded moon which bears the Ma- 
donna. Life and bustle must be shown, Tyrolese women 
with clumsy caps, slender Austrian officers, and travellers, 
with book in hand, must cross each other, and then we have 
the picture of the town ; but the frame is of a greater style, 
and gives relief to the picture ; the frame is composed of 
the high mountains : they seem to be threatening thunder- 
clouds that will pass over us. 

I soon found the same walk I had visited with the Scotch- 
man ; the river Inn rushed on unchanged, the timber rafts 
glided under the strong bridges down the stream just as 
before. I went up the road where all the springs gush forth, 
where all the houses boast of a large image of the Madonna, — 
the one copied exactly from the other, the clothes of the same 
color, the same position for the mother as for the child ; 
over the wall and quite over the windows, where they only 
left a little space open, hung, like a large carpet, the yellow 
maize to ripen in the sun j merry children played in the 
streets : everything was as before. I followed the path, and 
stood amongst the silent rocks, where- I had seen the mon- 



TYROL. 37 

ument with the Hebraic epitaph, and I saw a part of it still, 
but only a part ; a piece of the plank lay in the grass with 
half worn-out Hebrew letters ; high grass shot up over the 
pile which had borne it. I sang my Scotch song again, and 
looked at the scenery around ; that and the song were un- 
changed. I thought of my Scotch friend who is now perhaps 
the father of a family, and who was possibly at that mo- 
ment seated in his soft arm-chair, asleep after a good meal, 
perhaps dreaming of one or another thing he had seen ; 
perhaps dreaming of this place, and in his dream seeing the 
town, the river, and the mountains just as clearly as I saw 
it, for the mind can retrace even the smallest details ; dream- 
ing that I sang .the Scotch song for him on this place. He 
awakes, looks up, and says, " I had quite forgotten that ; 
how one can dream ! " and so the dream was perfect reality, 
for I stood again by the grave, and sang the Scotch melody. 

The bright brass balls on the high church towers in the 
town shone in the evening sunlight. I returned thither : the 
palace church stood open, as is the custom in Catholic coun- 
tries ; the light fell with a red tint through the large window- 
panes. From the entrance and up to the choir, stand co- 
lossal figures in bronze of the German emperors and em- 
presses, all undoubtedly cast at the same time and by the 
same master ; but although they scarcely belong to works 
of art, yet they give the church a peculiar stamp ; it seems 
like an open book of legends, which speaks of the days of 
chivalry ; even that white monument in the aisle to the left 
harmonizes well, if not as a part of the picture, yet like 
a fresh flower laid in the book, as a scented mark. It is 
an Alpine plant which tells of the strong mountains, of love 
for home here, of fidelity toward its land's Emperor, — it 
is the monument of Andreas Hofer. With the flag in his 
hand and his eyes toward heaven, the brave Tyrolese seems 
to advance to combat for his mountains, his hearth, and the 
Emperor Francis. From Innspruck the way passes over 
Brenner to Italy. 

It was toward evening on the fourth of December, 1840, that 
I drove up the mountain in the diligence, well wrapped up 
in cloaks, with Iceland stockings up over the knees, for they 



38 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

had warned me that it was cold up there, and perhaps the 
snow lay so high that we should have to cut our way through. 
I knew it was the worst season of the year, but over it we 
must go. The road wind's constantly in a zigzag upward, 
and we went very slowly. The view behind is immense, and 
becomes more impressive every step we go forward. The air 
was quite of a rose red ; the mountains with the snow looked 
like a shining silver cloud, and as the red light disappeared 
in the air and it became more and more of a pure blue, 
night lay in the valley ; the lights twinkled in the town, which 
appeared to us like a starry firmament beneath us. The 
evening was so still we heard the snow creak under the wheels. 
The moon, which was only in the first quarter, shone clear 
enough to illumine all the surrounding objects in the white 
snow without depriving us of the sight of the many stars ; 
sometimes we saw one of them, so large and glittering, 
close by the mountain summit, that it appeared as if it were 
a fire. 

The wheel-ruts passed close to the giddy precipice where 
there are no railings — where there is nothing, except here 
and there a mighty pine which holds itself fast by the roots to 
the declivity : it appeared a fathomless abyss in the. moonlight. 
What stillness ! only the sound of a rivulet was to be heard ! 
We met not a single wanderer ; not a bird flew past us ; and it 
soon became so cold that the windows of the diligence were 
covered with icy flowers, and we saw but the rays of the moon 
refracted from the edge of the flowers. We stopped at Stein- 
ach, where we flocked round a stove with a brass ball on the 
top, and refreshed ourselves with a frugal Friday's meal, whilst 
the coachman filled the diligence with hay to keep our feet 
warm. There was not much snow lying there, but it was bit- 
ter cold. Just at twelve o'clock we passed Brenner, the high- 
est point, and though the cold was the same, yet we felt it less, 
for we sat with our feet in the warm hay and with our thoughts 
in Italy, toward which we were now advancing. The frozen 
window-panes began to melt, the sun burst forth, the green firs 
became more and more numerous, the snow was less. " We 
approach Italy, " said we ; and yet the postilion was so fro- 
zen that his cheeks and nose were of the same color as the 
morning clouds. 



TYROL. 



39 



The road runs continually along the side of the roaring 
river ; the cliffs around are not high, and have a strange moul- 
dering appearance : they look like slates with half obliterated 
Runic inscriptions and hieroglyphics ; they often form large 
walls which seem to support the remains of old monuments, 
decayed and beaten by rain and storm. During several hours' 
driving they had always the same formation ; it really ap- 
peared as if one were in a large cemetery for the whole race of 
Adam: the still-born child, the most wretched beggar, each 
had his monument ; all generations, all ages had theirs ; the 
grave-stones there stood strangely cast amongst each other : 
the green bush shooting forth from the rocky wall formed a 
striking resemblance to the feathery tuft in a knight's helmet, 
as the weather-beaten cliff resembled him ; here stood a knight 
in armor amongst deformed dwarfs, who all wore ruffs : they 
could not be better represented than here. In centuries to 
come these images will also decay; but new ones will be 
formed again, another church-yard's monuments for another 
thousand years' dead, — and the river will rush on below, 
and hum the same death-hymn. 

Toward noon we were in Botzen ; some of the trees had 
leaves ; the red vine leaf hung yet on the stem ; beautiful 
white oxen drew the peasants' wagons ; the church-yard had 
painted arcades ; in the inn there was as much Italian spoken 
as German, and on the table lay a play-bill on which we read 
in large letters : " Lucia di Lammermoor, tragedia lirica : " 
we were near Italy, although yet on German ground. 



ITALY. 
I. 

ENTRANCE INTO ITALY. 

TRAVELLING SKETCHES. 

I. 

PASSING over the Alps we come into a land where the 
winter is like a fine autumn day in the North ; once 
at least it was so to me. Six years had elapsed since I had 
left Italy ; I was now here again, and in the first hostelry on 
Italian ground I had determined to empty the cup of wel- 
come ; but the diligence drove past the first, the second, and 
the third, for the conductor slept, -and we certainly acted wisely 
in following his example. I peeped at the blue sky, and let 
down the carriage window to drink health in the fresh air. 
But our signors screamed aloud at this intrusion of the cold 
air, and so I only got a sniff of it. 

It was not yet daylight when we reached Verona. The 
Hotel della Posta is a cold, uncomfortable place. I was 
shown into a paved room, where there were three immeasur- 
ably large bedsteads ; a few dried sticks furnished a flame 
in the chimney ; but the fire was a sort of fascination, it did 
not afford the least warmth ; so I went to bed and slept — 
slept until the sun shone through the windows. I arose and 
drank of its beams, and in reality this was the most precious 
draught that Italy could give ! But I wished to have more 
sun ; I went out, therefore, and as I got more, I wished to 
have it still warmer. It is the same with sun-drinkers as 
with other drinkers, they will, always have more and always 
stronger. 

The sun shone on the magnificent marble tombs of the 
Scaligii, on the sarcophagus of Romeo and Juliet, on the 



ENTRANCE INTO ITALY. 41 

great Amphitheatre. I saw them all together ; but the sun 
of Italy did not yet shine in my heart with that lustre which 
all the pictures of memory do. 

We ascended the citadel to enjoy the splendid view over 
the old city and the murmuring river, and it was here that 
Italy first revealed itself. Yes, you will laugh at this reve- 
lation, but it is truth : the whole space of ground where this 
revelation took place was only some few yards ; it was in a 
long green salad bed, — only green salad, but it was in the 
open air in a strong sunlight, and the warm beams of the sun 
were reflected from an old wall quite overgrown with ivy. It 
was green here, it was warm here, and yet it was the seventh 
of December. 

That poor green salad, in the open air, in sunshine and 
shade, was like the drapery of that throne from which the maj- 
esty of Italy greeted me and cried : " Welcome ! " 



II. 

They spoke of nought but war, ■ — the expected war which 
France was soon to carry on against Germany. On the road 
there was bustle and movement, but this also was a sign of 
war \ one baggage wagon followed the other with ammunition, 
accompanied by Austrian cavalry, all, like ourselves, going 
towards Mantua, that famous large fortress. 

" I shall return in eight months," said a Gerrnan who sat 
in the same carriage with me ; "just the same way back ! It 
appears very consoling. How is one to slip through the 
enemy's ranks ? " 

" I live here on the plain, in the little town of Villafranca," 
sighed a lady ; " there we are but a few hours' ride from 
Mantua. We may expect dreadful times." 

I became serious ; yet in the great events of life, where I 
cannot do anything myself, I have the same firm belief as the 
Turks in a directing Providence ; I know that what will hap- 
pen, happens ! Here my thoughts turned to my friends at 
home ; the best hopes arose in my mind. 

It was evening, the air was clear and blue, the moon shone : 
it was so still, just as on a fine autumn evening in Denmark. 



42 A POETS BAZAAR. 

Mantua lay before us. They said it was Mantua, and I was 
quite in Denmark, not only in thoughts but in the surround- 
ing scenery. I saw a large clear lake, which in the moon- 
light seemed inclosed by woods that assumed a peculiar blue- 
ness ; the large plain of Lombardy, the lake and the woods, 
which in fact existed not, but appeared to exist, suddenly re- 
called me to my home : tears came to my eyes, — call it not 
home-sickness, for I was at home. 

They say that sorrow gets up behind a man and rides with 
him : I believe it ; but memory does the same, and sits faster. 
Memory rode its hobby on my knee, and laid its head against 
my heart. 

" Do you remember," it sang, " the large calm lakes inclosed 
by fragrant beech woods ? Do you remember the little path 
between the wild roses and the high brackens ? The rays of the 
evening sun played between the branches of the trees, and 
made the leaves transparent. Near the lake lies an old castle 
with a pointed roof, and the stork has its nest up there ; it is 
beautiful in Denmark ! " 

" Do you remember the brown, sweet smelling clover-field, 
with its old tumulus grown over with brambles and black- 
thorn ? The stones in the burial-chamber shine like copper 
when the sun throws his red gleams within. Do you remember 
the green meadow where the hay stands in stacks, and spreads 
a sweet perfume in the calm air ? The full moon shines, the 
husbandmen and girls go singing home, with glittering scythes. 
Do you remember the sea, the swelling sea, the calm sea? 
Yes, it is beautiful in Denmark ! " 

And we rolled into Mantua, — rolled in over an immense 
draw-bridge ! The wheels of the water-mills roared and 
foamed outside — and so we were in the streets of Mantua. 



III. 

It was the feast of the Madonna ; the magnificent church 
shone with light, the figures in the cupola appeared living — 
they soared ! It was as if one had cast a look into heaven it- 
self : the smell of incense filled the aisles of the church ; song 
and music sounded so exquisitely beautiful ; they breathed forth 



ENTRANCE INTO ITALY. 43 

a gladness which we inhabitants of the North cannot imagine 
in a church ; and yet, when we hear it there in the South, and 
see the devout crowd kneeling, we feel ourselves elevated by- 
joy! 

From the church, the crowd streamed forth into the large 
open square, and just before it stood a little puppet show. 
The puppets knocked their heads against each other, and 
fought with their large arms. The dialogue was applauded. 
It was now all life and mirth. 

People wandered up and down under the high piazzas ; 
song and music sounded from the open cafes ; I took a seat 
in one, where a musical pair displayed their talents. 

The husband was ugly and deformed, quite a dwarf; the 
wife, on the contrary, young and pretty; she played the harp 
and he the violin. His voice was sonorous. It was the most 
brilliant bass, so melodious and flexible : he sang with taste 
and feeling. Every one around became attentive. No one 
read his paper longer, no one gossiped with his neighbor ; it 
was a song worth hearing, and the Italians have an ear for song. 

I observed that the young wife once looked at him with an 
expression of mildness, and with so friendly a smile that their 
every-day life appeared as an adventure, his ugliness a spell, 
which she well knew; his nobler "self" revealed itself in 
song, and whilst he sang the ugly mask would once and forever 
fall, and she would see him young and handsome as she was 
herself. 

All the guests gave him a small tribute ; mine rattled in his 
hat as they called me to the post-house. 

The building here was formerly a cloister ; one must go 
through arcades, over the court-yard of an old cloister, into 
the church, a large one, built in the Italian style, and which 
now serves as a coach-house. 

The air without, lighted by the moon, threw so much light 
upon the cupola, that all the outlines appeared distinct. The 
lower part of the church itself was almost in the dark. A 
large stable lantern hung where the brass lustre had before 
hung; the diligence and one of the nearest carriages was 
lighted by it ; round about stood trunks, travellers' baggage, 
and packages. The whole made a disagreeable impression on 



44 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

me, for there was too much here that reminded me of the 
house of God. 

I know not with what feelings the Catholic regards such a 
change as that of a church into a stable. I have always imag- 
ined that the Catholic was more zealous for his creed than the 
less ceremonious Protestant. I felt glad to leave the place. 

The church door opened, and where the choristers had 
swung their censers with incense before the kneeling crowd, 
our horses' hoofs pattered, the postilion blew his horn, and we 
drove away. Four mounted gendarmes accompanied us, for 
the way was not safe. 

Everything was soon still and lonely ; we saw no more lights 
shining from any house by the way. 

We approached the river Po, and all around showed traces 
of the last inundation. Field and road were covered with a 
thick mud ; we could only drive slowly. By the bank of the 
river lay a solitary ferry-boat, so large that the carriage and 
horses could drive on to it ; a small wooden shed was also 
erected on the vessel ; within it burned a large fire, round 
which we all flocked, as the night was cold, whilst the stream 
itself carried the ferry-boat over. Everything was so still that 
we heard only the whistling sound of the ropes round the pul- 
ley by which our vessel was held, as the stream drove it on. 
The ferry was crossed : fresh gendarmes, on horseback and 
wrapped up in large cloaks, awaited us. 

IV. 

MOONLIGHT AND SUNLIGHT. 

It was after midnight : I sat in the rolling carriage, the 
soldiers kept close to it ; it was the most beautiful moonlight ! 
A large city with old walls lay straight before us; it was 
again pitchy night, we rode in through the gate, and the moon 
again shone. We were in Modena ! That sight is before me 
now, full of moonshine, like a strange dream. Old buildings 
with arcades : a magnificent palace with an extensive open 
place revealed itself; but all was void and still, not a light 
shone on us from a single window, not one living being moved 
in the large old city ; it was quite like witchcraft. We stopped 



ENTRANCE INTO ITALY. 45 

in a little square, in the centre of which stood a brick column, 
the upper part of which formed a sort of lantern with a glass 
window ) a lamp burned within. This sort of altar is called 
" the eternal light ; " the lamp is kept burning night and day. 

The flame appeared in the clear moonlight like a red spot, 
a painted flame ; a woman wrapped in a ragged mantle sat 
there and slept. She leaned her head against the cold wall 
of the pillar ; a sleeping child lay on her knee with its head 
on her lap. I stood long and regarded this group ; the little 
one's hand was half open on its mother's knee ! I laid a 
small coin quite gently in the child's hand ; it opened its eyes, 
looked at me, and closed them again directly. What was it 
dreaming of? I knew that when it awoke, the moonlight 
would cause the money to appear like silver in its hand. 

I saw Bologna by sunlight ; it lies between luxuriant vine 
fields, close under the Apennines, which form a green hedge 
wherein every tendril is a vineyard, every flower a villa or a 
church. 

The sun plays a great part in this country ; the inhabitants 
of the city do not like it, therefore everything is calculated to 
afford shade, every house forms a cool piazza ; but the sun 
rules in the vine fields and ripens the juicy grape \ it even 
forms an alliance with the stones. It is here in the neighbor- 
hood, in Mount Paderno, that the so-called Bononian stone 
(Spongia di Luce) is found, which has the particular quality 
of absorbing the sun's rays, and of giving a light in the dark. 

I thought of this when I saw the great city in the sunlight, 
and my eye fell on the leaning tower. This is also a mass of 
stone which gives light \ thought I, but it has got its light from 
Dante's " Divina Commedia." 

I thought of this when I visited the rich cemetery and 
looked at the many marble monuments ; they are also Bono- 
nian stones which receive their light from the dead they are 
placed over ; but I found none which as yet had absorbed 
any light, though on one was inscribed, that here lay a cele- 
brated dramatist, and on another, that here reposed a lady 
who could speak Greek and Latin. 

I thought of the Bononian stone as I stood before one of 
the private buildings in the city, and they told me the name 



46 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

of its owner. This house will also some day send forth a 
nimbus, but it has not yet ; for the sun is up, the stone 
drinks in the rays in our time ; the owner must die, then 
comes the lustre — the owner is the composer Giacomo Ros- 
sini. 



II. 

A NIGHT ON THE APENNINES. 

The Apennines with their trees and vineyards rise tower- 
ing above the green, flat plains of Lombardy. As we arrive 
outside the gates of Bologna, it appears as if the road passed 
over the ruined terraces of an immense garden, like those 
which, history tells us, a Semiramis constructed. 

It was in the middle of December ; everything bore the 
character of a late autumn. The vine leaves were red, the 
foliage of other trees yellow, the laurel hedges alone were 
green, as at all times, and the pines and cypresses carried 
their heads aloft in all their splendor. We drove slowly up- 
ward, ever upward ; garlands of vine leaves hung down over 
the shattered wall ; we met droves of fine oxen which had 
been employed as fore-teams, their white, shining sides had a 
reddish tinge from the setting sun. 

As we came higher up, the country became more and more 
solitary ; I went on before alone. The sun was down, and 
for some minutes there lay a bluish tone over the mountains, 
— an airy tone which seemed as if it streamed out from the 
mountain itself ; not a breeze was felt ; it was mild and still, 
and there was a greatness in the cliffs and the deep valley 
that disposed the mind to devotion. The solitude of the 
valley imparted to this — I will not say a stamp of melan- 
choly, no, I think it must be called quietude ; it was as if 
sleep had its kingdom there beneath ; there was a rest, a 
peace, which was increased by the gentle murmur of the river 
far below. 

The road wound round the mountain, and I soon lost all 
sight of our vehicle ; I saw not a being, I saw nothing but the 
deep valley ; I was alone — quite alone. 



A NIGHT ON THE APENNINES. 47 

It was night, the stars peeped forth; they glitter more 
brightly with us on a clear, frosty, winter night ; but here in 
the mountains the air is much higher, its distant vault was 
transparent, as if a new and immense space began behind this. 

A ray of light shone forth between the rocks, it came from 
an inn above us. A lamp burned before an image of the 
Madonna in the open arcade ; the cameriere, in white apron 
and velvet jacket, received us. We took our place in a large 
hall, the grayish-white walls of which were covered with names 
and inscriptions in all the European languages ; but it was 
cold and solitary here. Large bundles of twigs were thrown 
on the fire ; they blazed up in a great flame, and invited us 
to form a circle around the chimney. Every one in our little 
company had something to relate, particularly about the last 
great inundation. 

After having enjoyed the smoking supper, each one sought 
his chamber ; mine lay somewhat remote ; it was large and 
lonely. The bed was just as broad as it was long ; the vessel 
with holy water hung by the bed-head ; inscriptions were also 
to be found here on the wall ; one was in Danish, — 

" Enjoy life's happiness in thy day's youthful prime," — 

written by a compatriot. I hope that he enjoyed life. A 
poor table and two rush-chairs completed the rest of the furni- 
ture. 

I opened a window ; large iron bars were fixed across on 
the outside ; the window looked out over a deep valley 3 it was 
dark beneath. I heard the roar of a current ; above me was 
the firmament sparkling with stars ; I leaned my forehead 
against the iron bars, and felt myself no more alone than I 
am in my little room in Denmark. He who has a home at 
home, can feel home-sickness ; but he who has none feels 
himself equally at home everywhere. In the course of a few 
minutes my room here was an old home to me, though I 
knew not its environs as yet. 

Besides the general entrance, I saw a little door with a 
bolt before it. Where may this lead to, thought I ? I took 
the lamp, in which three wicks were burning I lighted all five, 
drew the bolt aside, and set out on a voyage of discovery. 



48 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

Outside I found a sort of lumber-room ; here stood chests, 
sacks, large jars, and on the walls hung old clothes and mus- 
kets. But from this room there was another outlet ; I opened 
the door, and now stood in a narrow passage ; I followed it, 
and stopped at a door : should I go further ? I listened. 
Then at once I heard the tones of two flutes, a deep, and 
a sharp piercing one, — after an interval they were repeated. 

The longer I listened the more sure I was that it could 
not be from a flute these tones came. I lifted the wooden 
latch and the door flew quickly open, — much quicker than 
I expected. The room was dimly lighted by a lamp ; an old 
peasant, with long white hair, sat half undressed in an arm- 
chair and played on a flute. I made an excuse for coming, 
but he did not notice me. I pulled the door to again, and 
was going ; but it was opened again, and a young lad, whom 
I had not observed, asked me in a whisper whom I was 
seeking. 

The old man I had seen was the uncle of my host ; he was 
insane, and had been so from his sixteenth year. " I will tell 
you a little about him," said the lad. " His malady was as if 
blown on him — no one knew the cause ; he had, when a boy, 
played the flute very prettily ; but from a certain night he had 
never since attempted more than these two tones — ■ a deep 
sorrowful one, and a high piercing one. These he constantly 
repeated, and often for several hours during the night." They 
had attempted to take the flute from him, and then he became 
like a wild animal ; with the flute, however, he sat still and 
mild. The young man I spoke with slept in the chamber 
with the old man, and was accustomed to the sound of the 
flute, as one may be to the strokes of the pendulum, or the cop- 
persmith's hammer, when he has been one's neighbor for a 
series of years. 

I returned to my room, and closed the door \ but yet I 
thought I heard the two tones of the flute ; they sounded as 
when the wind moves the vane on a distant spire. I could 
not fall asleep, my fancy was occupied with the old man. I 
heard the tones of the flute, — they sounded as from a world 
of spirits. When the old man is dead, the inmates of the 
house will, in the stillness of night, think that they hear, like 



THE BRONZE HOG. 



49 



ghost-tones, what I now heard in reality. It was early morn- 
ing before I fell asleep, and I believe they called me the same 
hour ; we were to depart at daybreak. It was night when we 
got into the carriage ; the mountains before us were covered 
with snow ; in the dawn they seemed as if they were glowing. 
At Pietra Mala we see but wild, naked cliffs of a volcanic 
nature, and the volcanoes are not burnt out; to the right, a 
thick smoke curled up from the rocky clefts. This morning 
I discerned two seas like a glittering stripe in the horizon ; 
to the left, the Adriatic, to the right, the Mediterranean. 
A strong wall is erected here on the highest point close to 
the way-side, to afford travellers a shelter against the storms 
which come from the east ; before this wall was built, there 
were often days and nights that no one could venture here, 
for the angel of the storm passed over the mountains. 

" The old man at the inn," said the vetturino, " one night, 
in the worst storm, crept on his stomach over this rock, 
though he was not deranged then ; he must, and would de- 
scend on the other side of the mountain ! " 

I thought of the old man and of the tones of his flute. 

The way downward was beautifully picturesque, in bold ser- 
pentine lines, sometimes over walled arches, always sheltered 
by the mountains, where the sun shone warm, where the snow 
was melted, and the trees stood in full leaf. " Beautiful It- 
aly ! " we all exclaimed. The vetturino cracked his whip, and 
the echo repeated it, as he could not have done it. 



III. 

THE BRONZE HOG. 
A STORY. 

In the city of Florence, not far from Piazza del Granduca, 
runs a little cross-street ; I think it is called Porta Rossa. 
In this street, before a sort of bazaar where they sell vege- 
tables, stands a well-wrought bronze figure of a hog. The 
clear, fresh water bubbles out of the mouth of the animal, 
which has become dark green from age ; the snout alone 
4 



50 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

shines as if it were polished bright ; and it is made so by 
the many hundred children and lazzaroni who take hold of 
it with their hands, and put their mouths to the animal's to 
drink. It is a complete picture to see that well-formed ani- 
mal embraced by a pretty, half-naked boy, who puts his sweet 
little mouth to its snout. 

Every one that visits Florence will easily find the place ; 
you need only ask the first beggar you see about the Bronze 
Hog, and he will tell you. 

It was a late winter evening, the mountains were covered 
with snow ; but it was moonlight, and the moon in Italy 
gives a light which is just as good as the best light of a dark 
winter day in the North ; nay, it is better, for here the sun 
shines, the air elevates, whilst in the North that cold, gray, 
leaden roof presses us down to the earth, the cold wet earth, 
which will hereafter press our coffin. 

Yonder, in the Duke's palace garden, where a thousand 
roses bloom in the winter time, a little ragged boy had sat 
the whole day long, under the pine-tree's roof. He was a boy 
that might be the image of Italy, — so pretty, so laughing, 
and yet so suffering. He was hungry and thirsty : no one 
had given him a farthing; and when it became dark, and 
the garden was to be closed, the porter chased him away. 
He stood long on the bridge over the Arno, dreaming and 
looking at the stars as they glistened in the water, between 
him and the noble marble bridge, Delia Trinita. 

He bent his steps toward the Bronze Hog, knelt half down, 
threw his arms around its neck, placed his little mouth to its 
shining snout, and drank a deep draught of the fresh water. 
Close by lay salad leaves, and a few chestnuts : these were his 
supper. There was not a human being in the street ; he was 
quite alone. He sat down on the swine's back, leaned forward 
so that his little curled head rested on that of the animal, 
and, before he himself knew it, was asleep. 

It was midnight, the bronze figure moved ; he heard it say 
quite distinctly, " Hold fast, little boy, for now I run ! " and 
away it ran with him. It was a laughable ride. 

The first place they came to was Piazza del Granduca, and 
the bronze horse which bore the statue of the Duke neighed 



THE BRONZE HOG. 5 1 

aloud; the variegated arms on the old Council Hall shone 
like transparent paintings ; and Michael Angelo's David 
swung his sling. It was a strange life that moved ! The 
bronze groups with Perseus, and the " Rape of the Sabines," 
were but too living : a death shriek from them passed over 
that magnificent but solitary place. 

The Bronze Hog stopped by the Palazzo degli Uffrzi, in 
the arcade where the nobility assemble during the pleasures of 
the Carnival. 

" Hold fast ! " said the animal, " hold fast ! for we are now 
going up the stairs." The little boy said not a word ; he half 
trembled, he was half happy. 

They entered a long gallery ; he knew it well, for he had 
been there before. The walls were covered with paintings ; 
here stood statues and busts : everything was in the brightest 
light, just as if it were day; but it was most splendid when 
the door to one of the side rooms opened. The little fellow 
remembered the splendor here, yet this night everything was 
in its most beauteous lustre. 

Here stood a beautiful naked female, as beautiful as nature 
and marble's greatest master alone could make her. She 
moved her fine limbs, dolphins played around her feet, im- 
mortality shone from her eyes. By the world she is called the 
" Venus de' Medici." On each side of her were numerous 
marble groups, in which the spirit of life had pierced the stone. 
These were naked, well-formed men : the one sharpening the 
sword, is called the Grinder ; the wrestling Gladiators form 
the second group : the sword is whetted, the combatants 
wrestle for the Goddess of Beauty. 

The boy was almost blinded with all this lustre : the walls 
beamed with colors, and all was life and motion there. The 
double image of Venus was here seen — that earthly Venus, 
so swelling and impassioned, whom Titian had pressed to 
his heart. It was strange to see. They were two beautiful 
women j their handsome, unveiled limbs were stretched on 
soft cushions, their bosoms rose, and their heads moved, so 
that the rich locks fell down on their round shoulders, whilst 
their dark eyes spoke the glowing thoughts within ; but not 
one of all the pictures ventured to step entirely out of the 



52 A POETS BAZAAR. 

frame. The Goddess of Beauty herself, the Gladiators and 
Grinder, remained in their places, for the glory which beamed 
from the Madonna, Jesus, and John, had bound them. The 
holy images were no longer images — they were the sainted 
beings themselves. 

From saloon to saloon what splendor ! what beauty ! 
and the little boy saw it all. The Bronze Hog went step 
by step through all this magnificence and glory. But one 
sight superseded the rest — one image alone fixed itself in 
his thoughts : it was caused by the glad, happy children who 
were there on the walls : the little boy had once nodded to 
them by daylight. 

Many, certainly, have wandered carelessly past this picture, 
and yet it incloses a treasure of poesy: it is Christ who 
descends into the nether world ; but it is not the tortured 
we see around him ; no, they tell of hope and immortality. 
Angiolo Bronzino, the Florentine, painted this picture. The 
expression of the children's certainty that they are going to 
heaven, is excellent ; two little ones embrace each other ; one 
child stretches its hand out to another below, and points to 
himself as if he said, " I am going to heaven ! " All the 
elders stand uncertain, hoping, or bending in humble prayer 
to the Lord Jesus. 

The boy looked longer at this picture than at any other ; 
the Bronze Hog stood still before it ; a gentle sigh was heard ; 
did it come from the painting, or from the animal's breast ? 
The boy extended his hands toward the smiling children ; 
then the animal started off with him, away — through the 
open front hall. 

" Thanks, and blessings on thee, thou sweet animal ! " said 
the little boy, and patted the Bronze Hog, who, with an amia- 
ble grunt, sprang down the stairs with him. 

" Thanks, and blessings on thyself! " said the animal. " I 
have helped thee, and thou hast helped me, for it is only with 
an innocent child on my back that I have strength to run. 
Nay, I dare now enter under the light of the lamp, before 
the image of the Madonna. I can bear thee away every- 
where, only not into the church ; but when thou art with me 
I can look in through the open door from the outside. Do 



THE BRONZE HOG. 



53 



not get off my back \ if thou dost, I shall fall down dead, as 
thou seest me in the day at the Porta Rossa." 

" I will stay with thee, my blessed animal," said the little 
boy ; and away they went with a whizzing flight through the 
streets of Florence, and out to the open square before the 
church of Santa Croce. 

The large folding door flew open, lights shone from the 
altar, through the church, into the solitary square. 

A strange ray of light streamed forth from a monument in 
the left aisle ; a thousand moving stars formed, as it were, a 
glory around it. A device displayed itself on the tomb ; a 
red ladder on a blue ground — it appeared to glow like fire. 
It was the grave of Galileo : it is a simple monument, but the 
red ladder on the blue ground is a significant device ; it is as 
if it belonged to art alone, for here the way goes always up- 
ward, on a glowing ladder, but to heaven. All the proph- 
ets of genius go to heaven, like the prophet Elias. 

In the right aisle of the church every statue on the rich 
sarcophagus seemed to be endowed with life. Here stood 
Michael Angelo, and there Dante, with the laurel-wreath 
around his brow ; those great men, Italy's pride, with Alfieri 
and Machiavelli, rest here side by side. 1 It is a handsome 
church, far more so than the marble cathedral of Florence, 
although it is not so large. 

It was as if the marble habiliments moved ; as if those 
great forms raised their heads with more dignity than ever, 
and looked, in the deep night, during song and music, toward 
that variegated, beaming altar, where white-robed boys swung 
golden censers : the powerful odor streamed forth from the 
church into the open square. 

The boy stretched forth his hand toward the beaming light, 
and at the same moment the bronze hog darted away with 
him. He was obliged to cling fast to it ; the wind whistled 

1 Opposite Galileo's tomb is that of Michael Angelo, on which is placed 
his bust, beside three figures, — Sculpture, Painting, and Architecture ; 
close by is Dante's cenotaph (the body itself is in Ravenna) ; on the monu- 
ment is seen Italy, she points to the colossal statue of Dante ; Poetry 
weeps for her lost son. A few paces from this is the monument of Alfieri ; 
it is adorned with laurels, lyres, and masks ; Italy weeps over his coffin. 
Machiavelli closes the row of these celebrated men. 



54 A POETS BAZAAR. 

about his ears j he heard the church doors creak on their 
hinges as they closed ; but at the same time he appeared to 
lose all consciousness ; he felt an icy coldness, and opened 
his eyes. 

It was morning ; he sat, but half glided down from the 
Bronze Hog, which stood, where it always used to stand, in 
the street Porta Rossa. 

Fear and anxiety filled the boy's mind when he thought of 
her whom he called mother ; her who had the day before sent 
him out and said that he must get money ; he had none, 
he was hungry and thirsty. Once more he took the metal 
hog round the neck, kissed its snout, nodded to it, and then 
wandered away to one of the narrowest streets, only broad 
enough for a well packed ass. A large iron-bound door stood 
ajar; he went up a bricked staircase with dirty walls and a 
slippery rope to serve as a hand-rail ; then came to an open 
gallery hung round with rags ; a flight of stairs led from 
thence to the yard, where thick iron wires were drawn from 
the wall to all the floors in the house, and the one pail swung 
by the side of the other, whilst the pulleys whistled, and the 
pails danced in the air, so that the water splashed down into 
the yard. There was another dilapidated brick staircase 
which he went up ; two Russian sailors sprang merrily down, 
and had nearly upset the little boy. They came from their 
nightly carousal. An exuberant female form, not very young, 
but with thick black hair, followed them. 

" What have you brought home ? " she demanded of the 
boy. 

" Do not be angry," he exclaimed ; " I have got nothing ! 
nothing at all ! " and he took hold of his mother's gown as if 
he would kiss it. They entered the chamber ; but we will net 
describe it. Only so much may be told, that there stood a 
pot with a span handle, martto, it is called, and in this was 
charcoal. She took it on her arm, warmed her fingers, and 
struck the boy with her elbow. 

" To be sure, you have money ? " said she. 

The child cried, she kicked him ; he cried aloud. " Will 
you be still, or I'll knock your screaming head in two ! " and 
she swung the fire-pot, which she held in her hand ; the boy 



THE BRONZE HOG. 55 

fell to the ground with a scream. Then her neighbor entered 
the door, she also had her marito on her arm. 

" Felicita ! What are you doing with the child ? " 

" The child is mine ! " answered Felicita. " I can murder 
him if I choose, and thee, also, Gianina," and she swung her 
fire-pot ; the other raised her's to parry the blow. The pots 
clashed against each other, and the broken pieces, fire and 
ashes, flew about the room ; but at the same instant the boy 
was out of the door, over the yard, and away from the house. 
The poor child ran so that at last he was quite breathless. 
He stopped at the church of Santa Croce, — the church whose 
large door had the night before opened to admit him, — and 
he went in. There was a flood of light ; he knelt by the first 
grave to the right ; it was Michael Angelo's, and he sobbed 
aloud. People came and went ; the mass was read ; no one 
took notice of the boy. At length an elderly citizen stopped, 
looked at him, and then went away like the rest. 

Hunger and thirst tormented the little fellow ; he was quite 
exhausted and sick ; he crept into a corner between the wall 
and the marble monument, and fell asleep. It was toward 
evening when he was again awakened by some one shaking 
him : he started up, and the same old citizen stood before 
him. 

" Are you ill ? Where do you live ? Have you been here 
the whole day ? " were a few of the questions put to him by 
the old man. They were answered, and the old man took 
him home with him to a small house close by, in one of the 
side-streets. It was a glover's shop they entered ; the wife 
sat diligently at work. A little white Bolognese dog, clipped 
so close that one could see its rosy red skin, skipped on to the 
table, and jumped about before the little boy. 

" The innocent souls know each other," said the woman, as 
she patted both the boy and the dog. 

The good folks gave the poor boy to eat and to drink, and 
they said he should be allowed to remain the night over. 
Next day father Giuseppe would speak with his mother. He 
had a poor little bed ; but it was a magnificent one for him, 
who was often obliged to sleep on the hard stone floor. He 
slept so well, and dreamt of the rich paintings, and of the 
Bronze H02. 



56 A POETS BAZAAR. 

Father Giuseppe went out next morning, and the poor child 
was not happy on that account, for he knew that this going 
out was in order to return him again to his mother j and he 
cried and kissed the nimble dog, and the woman nodded to 
them both. 

And what answer did father Giuseppe bring ? The citizen 
spoke much with his wife, and she nodded, and patted the 
boy. 

" He is a sweet child ! " said she. " What a fine glover we 
can make of him — just as you were ! and he has such fine, 
pliant fingers. Madonna has destined him to be a glover ! " 

And so the boy remained there in the house, and the woman 
herself taught him to sew. He lived well, he slept well, he 
became lively, and he began to tease Bellissima — so the 
little dog was called ; the woman threatened him with her 
finger, and chid him, and was angry, and it went to the 
boy's heart, as he sat thoughtfully in his little chamber. ' It 
looked out to the street, and they dried skins there ; thick iron 
bars were before the windows. He could not sleep, the Bronze 
Hog was in his thoughts, and he suddenly heard something 
outside, — " plask, plask ! " Yes, it was certainly the hog. 
He sprang to the window, but there was nothing to be seen — 
it was past. 

" Help Signor to carry his color-box ! " said the old lady in 
the morning to the boy, as their young neighbor, the painter, 
came toiling along with it, and a large roll of canvas. The 
child took the box, and followed the painter ; they made the 
best of their way to the gallery, and went up the same stairs ; 
he knew it well from the night that he rode on the Bronze Hog ; 
he knew the statues and paintings ; the beautiful marble Ve- 
nus ; and those that lived in colors ; he saw again Mary, Jesus, 
and John. They now stood still before the picture by Bronzino, 
where Christ descends into the nether world, and the children 
round about smile in sweet certainty of heaven ; the poor 
child smiled also, for he was here in his heaven ! 

" Now go home ! " said the painter to him, when the boy 
had stood until he had adjusted his easel. 

" May I see you paint ? " said the boy ; " may I see how you 
get the picture there on to that white piece ? " 



THE BRONZE HOG. 



57 



" I am not going to paint now," answered the young man, 
and took his black crayon out. His hand moved quickly, his 
eye measured the large picture, and, though it was but a thin 
stroke that came forth, yet Christ stood hovering there as on 
the colored canvas. 

" But you must go, now ! " said the painter, and the boy 
sauntered silently homeward : he sat down on the table, and 
learned — to sew gloves. 

But his thoughts were the whole day in the picture-gallery, 
and, therefore, he pricked his fingers, was intolerably awkward, 
but did not tease Bellissima. When it was evening, and the 
street door just chanced to be open, he stole out ; it was cold 
but starlight, so beautiful and clear, and he wandered away 
through the streets, which were already still, and he soon stood 
before the Bronze Hog, which he bent down over, .kissing its 
bright snout ; and he got on its back. 

"Thou blessed animal," said he, " how I have longed for 
thee ! We must ride a little to night ! " 

The Bronze Hog remained immovable, and the fresh water 
welled from its mouth. The little boy sat there like a jockey 
until some one pulled him by the clothes. He looked around, 
it was Bellissima, the little, naked, shorn Bellissima. The 
dog had crept out of the house and followed the little boy 
without his having observed it. Bellissima barked as if it 
would say, " You see I am with you, why will you sit there ? " 
No fiery dragon could have frightened the boy more than 
the little dog in that place. Bellissima in the street, and with- 
out being dressed, as the old mother called it ! what would be 
the consequence ? The dog was never allowed to go out in the 
winter time without being clothed in a little sheep-skin, which 
was cut and sewed to fit it. The skin was to be bound fast 
about the neck and belly with red ribbons, and it had bells. 
The dog looked almost like a little kid when it had this 
habit on in the winter time, and was permitted to trip out 
with Signora. Bellissima was with him, and not dressed ; 
what would be the result ? All his wild fancies had vanished, 
yet the boy kissed the Bronze Hog, and took Bellissima in 
his arms. The animal trembled with cold, and therefore the 
boy ran as fast as he could. 



58 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

" What are you running with there ? " cried two gendarmes 
whom he met \ and Bellissima barked. 

" Where have you stolen that pretty dog from ? " they asked, 
and look it from him. 

" O ! give it me again ! " whimpered the boy. 

" If you have not stolen it, you can tell them at home that 
they can get the dog at the guard-house." They named the 
place, and away they went with Bellissima. 

Here was sorrow and trouble. He knew not whether he 
should spring into the Arno, or go home and confess all. 
They would certainly kill him, he thought. " But I would 
willingly be killed ! I will die, and then I shall go to Jesus 
and Madonna;" and he went home with the thought of 
being killed. 

The door was locked ; he could not reach the knocker ; 
there was no one in the street, but there was a loose stone ; he 
took it up and hammered away at the door. " Who is that ? " 
cried a voice from within. 

" It is me ! " said he. " Bellissima is lost ! — let me in, 
and kill me ! " 

They were so frightened, particularly Signora, for poor 
Bellissima ! She looked directly to the wall where the dog's 
vestment always hung, and the little sheep-skin was there. 

" Bellissima in the guard-house ! " she cried quite aloud ; 
" you wicked child ! How did you get him out ! He will be 
frozen to death ! That delicate animal among the coarse 
soldiers." 

The old man was obliged to be off directly. The wife 
wailed, and the boy cried. All the people in the house mus- 
tered together, the painter too ; he took the boy between his 
knees, questioned him, and by bits and scraps he got the 
whole story about the Bronze Hog and the gallery — it was not 
easy to understand. The painter, however, consoled the little 
fellow, and spoke kindly to the old woman ; but she was not 
satisfied before " father " came with Bellissima, who had been 
amongst the soldiers. There was such joy, and the painter 
patted the poor boy, and gave him a handful of pictures. 

O, they were splendid pieces, comic heads ! but, above all, 
there was the Bronze Hog itself to the life. O, nothing could 



THE BRONZE HOG. 



59 



be more glorious ! With a few strokes, it stood there on paper, 
and even the house behind it was shown. 

" O, how I wish I could draw and paint ! then I could 
obtain the whole world for myself." 

The first leisure moment that the little fellow had next day, 
he seized a pencil, and on the white side of one of the 
pictures he attempted to copy the drawing of the Bronze 
Hog, and he succeeded ! A little crooked, a little up and 
down, one leg thick and another thin, but yet it was not to 
be misunderstood • he himself exulted over it. The pencil 
would not go just as straight as it should do, he could per- 
ceive ; but next day there stood another Bronze Hog by the 
side of the first, and it was a hundred times better ; the third 
was so good that every one might know it. 

But the glove-making went badly on, the town errands 
went on slowly, for the Bronze Hog had taught him that all 
pictures could be drawn on paper, and the city of Florence 
is a whole picture-book, if one will but turn the leaves over. 
On the Piazza della Trinita there stands a slender pillar, and 
oil the top of this stands the Goddess of Justice, with her 
eyes bound, and the scales in her hand. 

She soon stood on the paper, and it was the glover's little 
boy who had placed her there. The collection of pictures 
increased ; but everything in it was as yet but still-life ; when 
one day Bellissima hopped about before him. " Stand still, " 
said he ; "you shall be beautiful, and be amongst my pictures ! " 
but Bellissima would not stand still, so he must be bound ; 
his head and tail were fastened ; he barked and jumped : the 
string must be tightened — when in came Signora ! 

" You wicked boy ! the poor animal ! " was all that she 
could say : and she pushed the boy aside, kicked him with her 
foot, and turned him out of her house ; he, the most ungrateful 
rascal, the naughtiest child ! and crying, she kissed her lit- 
tle half strangled Bellissima. 

Just then the painter came up the stairs, and — here is the 
point on which the story turns. 

In the year 1834 there was an exhibition in the Academia 
della Arte in Florence ; two paintings placed by the side of 
each other drew a number of spectators to them. The small- 



60 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

est painting represented a merry little boy, who sat drawing ; 
he had for his model a little, white, nicely-clipped -pug-dog, 
but the animal would not stand still, and was therefore bound 
fast with pack-thread, and that both by the head and tail ; there 
was life and truth in it that must appeal to every one. The 
painter was, as they said, a young Florentine who had been 
found in the streets when a little boy. He had been brought 
up by an old glover and had taught himself drawing. A 
painter, now famous, had discovered this talent, the boy hav- 
ing been turned away because he had bound his mistress's 
favorite, the little pug-dog, and made it his model. 

The glover's boy had become a great painter. The picture 
proved it ; but it was particularly shown in the larger one by 
its side. Here was but a single figure, a ragged but beautiful 
boy, who sat and slept in the street ; he leaned up against 
the Bronze Hog in the street Porta Rossa. 1 All the spec- 
tators knew the place. The child's arm rested on the swine's 
head ; the little boy slept soundly, and the lamp by the image 
of the Madonna cast a strong, effective light on the child's 
pale, sweet face. It was a magnificent picture ; a large gilt 
frame encircled it, and on the corner of the frame hung a 
laurel wreath, but between the green leaves, a black ribbon 
entwined itself, from which a long crape veil hung down. 

The young artist was just then dead ! 



IV. 

TRAVELLING WITH THE VETTURINO. 

The most general mode of travelling through Italy is with 
the Vetturino j he arranges the whole, but then one must stop 
where he will, eat what he orders to be placed on the table, 
and sleep in the place he pleases to choose for us. Dinner 
and lodging are always included in the agreement; but the 
journey always lasts twice as long as when one travels by 
post j it is also quite characteristic that, after having agreed 

1 The Bronze Hog is a cast ; the original is antique and of marble ; 
it is placed at the entrance to the gallery in Palazzo degli Uffizi. 



TRAVELLING WITH THE VETTURINO. 6 1 

with the man, we do not give him money in hand, but he, on 
the contrary, gives us ; for he is sure that we shall not run 
away from him ; but we cannot be so certain with respect to 
him, for if a higher price be offered him than that we have 
agreed to give, he takes the highest bidder, and lets us remain 
behind with what he has put into our hands. 

The time of departure is generally before sunrise ; but as 
the vetturino has his passengers to fetch from different places 
in the town, and as all do not belong to the class of early 
risers, some are to be awakened when he comes ; others stand 
busy packing up, so that it is late in the morning before the 
last passenger can be got into the carriage. Now I belong to 
those who get up in the middle of the night, when I have to 
travel early in the morning ; so I was up here likewise, and 
had everything ready to leave Florence, and to travel by way 
of Terni to Rome, a journey which, with the vetturino, lasts 
six whole days. The road over Siena is, however, shorter. 
I knew them both, and chose the most interesting, although 
the longest. The vetturino was to start at three o'clock ; I 
was ready an hour earlier, and stood staring at my portman- 
teau and travelling-bag. 

I had my things taken down-stairs that they should not 
wait for me. The clock struck half-past two, but no carriage 
came ; the clock struck four, there was a rumbling in the 
street ; there came a vetturino, but he drove past ; there 
came another ; he also drove past, and all was still ! 

The clock struck one quarter, and then another. The 
church-bells rang to prayers, the bells of the hotels rang for 
the waiters. Carriages enough came through the street, but 
none to me. The clock struck five, then six — I was certain 
that they had forgotten me — and then came the carriage. 
Within, sat a stout Englishman : he was asleep when the vet- 
turino had called for him. There was also a Roman lady ; 
she had been on a visit to her daughter, who resided in Flor- 
ence, and their leave-taking had lasted an hour, so the vet- 
turino said, adding, we should now be off at a gallop, as soon 
as I had got in. 

The whip cracked, we rolled over the Arno, and then we 
stopped. It was outside a cloister ; some ecclesiastics came 



62 A POETS BAZAAR. 

out ; a young, pale brother of the Camaldolese order as- 
cended the coupe with me. He was an Englishman, and 
knew a little French, but it was not possible to get into con- 
versation with him ; he read his prayer-book continually, 
smote his breast, crossed himself, and kept closing his eyes as 
if he would have nothing to do with either trees, mountains, 
or sun, much less with such a heretic as myself. Every peo- 
ple's, nay, every sect's different manner of approaching God 
is sacred to me ; I feel myself perplexed by the thought that 
my presence makes them less free in their approach to God. 
It was thus also here by the side of this, the most zealous 
Catholic I had hitherto met ; but as I by degrees observed 
how entirely he lived within himself and his forms, I also be- 
came free ; and as he once closed his prayer-book and stole 
a glance at nature, my great holy Bible, I pointed to its beau- 
tiful writings and the sentences which might be read there. 
God had strewn ashes on the green heads of the olive-trees 
which here stretched forth the rich fruit of their gray-green 
branches. The vines held each other fast, though the world 
had robbed them of their heavy grapes, and the wind now 
plundered them of their red-brown leaves. " Be humble, if 
even you give rich fruit to the world ! " preached the olive- 
trees. " Keep together in unity, if even the world rob you of 
all ! " said the vine. Thus I read in my Bible : what the 
brother of the Camaldolese read I know not ; but the Bible 
can be read in many ways. In the interior of the diligence, 
the conversation proceeded in a much more lively manner. 
The Englishman spoke French with La Romana, and she 
laughed and translated into Italian for her spouse — a little 
gentleman who was dressed like an abbot — what the English- 
man said to her. A young priest was the fourth person, and 
they composed the party. 

We came to Incisa. The young priest and the little thin 
man jumped out of the diligence, and then came Signora ; 
the Englishman followed her with still more difficulty, as he 
had ladies' fur boots on his feet, a large blue cape over his 
shoulders, and a thick woolen neckerchief about his thin red 
whiskers. There was something of a courtier's consciousness 
and a chandler's carriage about him j my English priest clothed 



TRAVELLING WITH THE VETTURINO. 



63 



in black, with his boots over his smalls, very frozen-looking 
and devout, wandered away directly to the church ; we others 

accompanied Sir , who led La Romana up the broad, dirty 

stairs to the salle-a-manger, which presented four not over 
white walls, a brick floor, some rush chairs, and a table, — the 
cloth on which, was in color as though it had been washed in 
coffee-water. The Englishman entertained us by telling about 
all the royal saloons he had been in, of two princes who had 
sat by his bedside when he lay ill in Florence ; and now he 
was so modest as to travel with the vetturino, and that with- 
out having servants with him ; for " one was not in Italy for 
one's servants' pleasure ! " 

Signora bowed at every great name he mentioned, and re- 
peated it to her little husband, who bowed still lower, and 
looked at the young priest, who bowed obediently as he did. 

Now came the dishes, which all of us, except the Briton, 
had ordered. The Englishman peered closely into them, 
seized a fork, and without any ceremony took the best piece 
he saw. " It is good," said he, and we all bowed politely. 
The company did it because of his distinction \ I on account 
of his originality. 

The Signora now took some small baked fruit cakes, which 
her daughter had made for her. She presented two of the 
richest to our guest, as we at the table called him. " I will 
put by these cakes until evening," said he ; u they are deli- 
cious ; " and he folded them up in paper, put the little parcel 
into his pocket, and bowed. " But yet one ought to taste 
them," he reminded himself; and so he took a piece from 
Signora. " It is excellent, superb ! " and he took another 
piece. 

Signora bowed, and laughed aloud. I think she also began 
to find him original. 

The hostess now brought him his breakfast, and that dis- 
appeared like our dishes. For dessert the Englishman gave 
us a bravura, Signora clapped her hands, and cried " Bravo ! " 
her husband also. The waiter let fall the plate from sheer 
astonishment, and the Englishman's rush-chair broke down ; 
it was too crazy for an Englishman under excitement. Signora 
now made a sign, and her husband sang so softly, and in such 



64 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

a. dying cadence, so ethereally I may say, that I at last could 
only see by his trembling lips, that he was still amusing us 
with his song. It met with immense applause. We then got 
into the diligence again. My praying English priest now 
appeared, and crept up with me ; his breakfast had been the 
air and the little prayer-book : he prayed still. The whip 
cracked, three voices within the carriage rose in melody, and 
away we went again. Toward evening we had rain, but the 
rain-drops soon turned into snow-flakes, which were thawed 
directly on the wet, clayey road. We got but slowly forward ; 
it was dark, and there was not a house where we could get 
our lantern lighted. Signora moaned in dismal fear of rob- 
bers, and her spouse from dread of being overturned ; the 
Englishman railed at the coachman, and the coachman at the 
horses, and so it continued in the same progression until a 
light at length shone in the distance. We were near a soli- 
tary inn, where we went up into the guests' room through a 
stable, half frozen and hungry. It was a most intolerable 
time before a few sticks and twigs could be brought to blaze 
in the chimney ; but at the moment they did blaze, the Eng- 
lishman came with his sheets, and formed a screen with them 
around the fire-place. " They must be dried," said he, and 
so the sheets got the whole, warmth. The rest of the com- 
pany put up with it, and I also was obliged to be satisfied. 
The Englishman and I were to sleep in one room together. 
I entered, and found him standing on my counterpane which 
he had spread out on the floor, having elevated his bed with 
two of my pillows, which he had appropriated to his own use 
without ceremony. 

" I do not like to lie with my head low ! " said he. 

" Nor I, either ! " I replied. " With your permission," and I 
took them from him. He looked amazed. 

He was an insupportable sleeping companion ; he wanted 
so much waiting on that at last I was obliged to go to bed to 
get rid of him. I pretended to sleep ; but I saw with half 
closed eyes, that he prepared his midnight meal on a rickety 
rush-chair by the bed. 

I had been up a long while next morning, the horses were 
already before the diligence, and we still waited for the Eng- 



TRAVELLING WITH THE VETTURINO. 65 

lishman. He could never be ready. Signora had also just 
begun her toilet. 

" It goes on slowly," said her husband, " for she weeps from 
anxiety to see her daughter." 

At length we drove off. 

I again sat with my godly neighbor, who crossed himself, 
read his prayer-book and fasted. 

We were obliged to stop in Arezzo, for both the priests must 
pray, and Signora said she must absolutely go to confession. 

From hence all around was olive woods. One group of 
trees disclosed itself after the other. The olive-tree resem- 
bles the willow most ; but the branches do not shoot forth in 
stiff twigs \ they bend more, the leaf is less, and the trunk it- 
self looks as if a giant hand had torn it half up from the 
ground, turned it round, and then let it stand waving in the 
storm. 

The old town of Castellone, situated on a rock, rises above 
the gray-green olive woods; it is one of the dirtiest, but also 
most picturesque towns in Italy. I know not how to de- 
scribe it better than by saying that it looks as if it had taken 
the houses, nooks, and corners that were much too miserable- 
looking in other towns, and thrown them here behind the 
old wall, above and over which they, however, protrude.. 
These small hanging gardens are in reality but scraps of 
terraces, which they have fastened like balconies under a 
window, or over a door of the house, where one least expected 
to see them. A part of the town wall forms a sort of forum, 
for the people. The square here was quite filled with all 
sorts of persons ; the steep road up to the gate of the town 
also swarmed with pedestrians and persons riding ; but there 
were no church-bells ringing, no flags waving, otherwise I 
should have thought it was some great feast. From all the 
by-ways, and even on the high-road, there were swarms of 
men and swine — great grunting herds. 

A heavy cloud hung over our heads, and some fine drops 
fell. The travellers extended their umbrellas which were 
almost all of a yellow-green, and so colossal that one could 
only see the green roof, and the hind part of the ass, when 
a monk or a village donna rode before us. There was such 
5 



66 A POETS BAZAAR. 

a screaming, and grunting, and hilarity, the nearer we ap- 
proached the inn which lies close to the road by the gates 
of the town. There was a swine market in Castellone. 

Signora stepped backward out of the diligence just as a 
whole herd of swine was driven past ; half the drove ran 
under the diligence ; it looked like the waves of " the Black 
Sea," and Signora trod on the Black Sea, and rocked on it, 
like a travestied Venus Anadyomene. She screamed, the 
waves screamed, and the drover screamed. It was a perilous 
moment for Signora. 

We sat down to table in the inn. There was such ordering 
and shouting by the Englishman, that the whole house was 
convinced he was a disguised prince, and that he would give 
the attendants royal veils. They heard only him, they ran 
only for him, were abused and kicked, and to all that he said 
and did they smiled and bowed ; but he gave them no v%ils. 
" For I am very dissatisfied ! " said he ; "I am dissatifeed 
with the food, with the house, and the attendance ! " The 
abashed waiters bowed still deeper, and both the priests took 
their hats off when he got into the diligence. 

It was so narrow and uncomfortable within ; it was so hung 
round with boxes and cases that every one was obliged to be 
very circumspect, if he would travel with the slightest com- 
fort ; the whole of the packages belonged to the Englishman, 
and yet, as he boasted, he paid the least of us all. He had 
taken the best place, and if a box or a package came too 
near him it was pushed over to the others. " For those 
things trouble one," said he; and it is true they did; but 
all the things were his own, even the large case which he had 
fixed behind Signora's neck. 

At Lago di Perugia we left the Tuscan, and entered the Pa- 
pal territory. The Custom-house looked like a deserted sta- 
ble, but it it is finely situated on the side of a mountain in the 
midst of an olive grove, from the terraces of which we look 
down to the sea. The sun cast strong red rays on the trees ; 
pretty peasant girls with white veils over their shoulders drove 
their cattle along, and I rejoiced at the sight of this living 
picture, whilst the officers of the customs examined the con- 
tents of our portmanteaus. 



TRAVELLING WITH THE VETTURINO. 67 

It was dark before we got away. The road was heavy and 
our horses exhausted. We proceeded at a very slow pace ; 
the vetturino said that the road here was not safe, — that is to 
say, we had no robbers to fear, but thieves might cut off our 
baggage from behind the diligence. Signora wept aloud. 

We now took it in turns to walk two behind at a time, to 
keep a lookout. It was a heavy, clayey forest-road, only 
lighted by the miserable flame of our carriage-lantern, and 
in addition we had also to go up hill. The horses panted, 
the Englishman growled, and Signora sighed from the deepest 
depths of her heart. 

Late in the evening we reached the village of Pasignore, 
which is regarded by all travellers as a genuine robber-hole. 

Two stout, masculine looking girls, strong, and florid com- 
plexioned, each of whom looked like a robber's bride, waited 
upon us in the inn. We got a soup to which we gave a 
taste by putting in much salt, pepper, and cheese ; we also 
got some boiled, and then some small fried fish, each as large 
as a finger. The wine was sour as vinegar, the grapes mouldy, 
and the bread as hard as a stone. 

The beds were all as broad as they were long ; they seemed 
to be arranged for four persons lengthwise and four cross- 
wise. 

The rain poured down in torrents the whole night. 

As we were leaving the inn in the morning, having to de- 
scend the steep stone stairs which passed almost perpendic- 
ularly through two floors, our buttoned-up and overcoated 
Englishman trod on something — I know not what — and 
rolled from the topmost step very gracefully down the whole 
stairs, step for step ; but this did not put him in better 
humor. 

The road to Perugia goes upward. We had got oxen 
for leaders to our conveyance ; they went but slowly, and it 
seemed as if we should never reach the good city, which is 
more famed for the potter's son than for all its bishops. 1 

At length we arrived there. 

The passage in the hotel was crowded with armorial shields ; 

1 Perugia, as it is well known, is the place where Raphael received 
instruction. 



68 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

one was hung up for every prince who had passed a night 
here. The Danish wild-men were also here ; they seemed to 
interest Signora, particularly when she heard from me that 
they were my countrymen ; and she asked me quite naively, if 
they went dressed in that manner in our cold land. 

The cold, chilly, praying Camaldolese monk left us here. 
He bade none of us farewell. 

At last I had a good place ; the whole coupe was mine ; I 
could sit alone and gaze well pleased at the fine mountains ; 
this place was, in fact, too little for two persons. 

We were now to be off again ; our stout Englishman wad- 
dled up to me : he too would enjoy the prospect. 

I assured him that the place was not large enough for him. 
" It is unpleasant ! " said he, and held on fast, although he 
continued to agree with me that there was not room for two ; 
he therefore proposed to me that I should creep into the dili- 
gence ; but I told him that it was just for the sake of enjoying 
nature alone that I had chosen this place. 

" I will also remain here for the sake of enjoying nature," 
said he. 

We had only driven a short distance when he shut his eyes, 
and begged me to nudge him when there was anything pretty 
to be seen. I did so a few times, but then he requested that 
I would only nudge him when there was something very 
unusually fine. 

I let him sleep. 

At Assisi, the birthplace of St. Francis, we visited the vil- 
lage church de gFAngeii. Signora would confess. 

Our Englishman took a guide to conduct him about alone 
to see the curiosities, " for he did not see well in company," 
he said. The monk who escorted him received neither money 
nor thanks. " These fellows have nothing else to do ! " said 
he, when Signora reproached him for his meanness. From 
that moment the connection between them was colder ; from 
that moment no quartet was heard in the diligence. 

I never before met a person with such a — yes, what shall I 
call it ? — such a thoughtless impudence. Every one must 
live for him, every one must conform themselves to his conven- 
ience ; he never paid a compliment but it was transformed 



TRAVELLING WITH THE VETTURINO. 



e 9 



into rudeness as it passed his lips. At last I began to think 
of the wicked step-mother in the story, who, after her hus- 
band's daughter had returned home from the well into which 
she had thrown her, and gold and roses sprang out of her 
mouth when she spoke, threw her own wicked daughter into 
the well ; but when she came up, she was still worse than be- 
fore, and at every word a frog or a lizard sprang out of her 
mouth. The more I looked at the Englishman, and the more 
I heard him speak, the more certain was I that he was own 
brother to the step-mother's bad daughter. 

How unpleasant did he not make the evening to us in that 
peaceful town Spoleto ; where the fire burned so brightly in 
the chimney ; where the music sounded so sweetly from the 
street ; where the people rejoiced outside thechurch, " E viva 
Madonna ! E viva Jesus Christus / " 

We were again in the diligence before sunrise ; and as long 
as it was the cold morning I had my place alone. It was dull 
weather, but the mountains were beautiful, and many of the 
trees were green. One little town after the other rose above 
us : each one lay like a sphinx on the mountain, and seemed 
to say: "Do you know what lives and moves here?" We 
passed quickly by. 

A beggar knelt down on the road before us, and kissed the 
ground. We passed by. We met armed soldiers, who sur- 
rounded a car on which lay four strong, black-bearded robbers 
chained together ; an old crone was with them. She sat at 
the back, with her face toward us; she nodded to us, and 
seemed to be merry enough. We drove quickly past — we 
were in Spoleto. 

A horrible looking fellow, in a dirty blue cloak, and with a 
little red greasy cap on his uncombed hair, approached our 
diligenee. I took him for a beggar, and referred him to the 
party in the other part of the vehicle ; he went up to one side 
and then to the other, but was sent away from both sides. 

" That is a passenger," said the vetturino ; " it is a nobile 
from Rome ! " But we all protested against having him for 
a neighbor. He looked exactly like patient Job, when he 
scraped himself with a potsherd. 

He then got up beside the vetturino, and my prospect was 
now completely cut off. 



70 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

When at home, and sitting on a soft sofa, we do not dream 
of travelling thus in Italy ; we then only see handsome people ; 
the sun then shines continually between the vines and cy- 
presses ; the body feels no weariness. Even the fresh air that 
came to- me was infected with the smell of the nobile's clothes. 

At the next station I gave up the coupe to him, sat by the 
side of the vetturino, drank in the air, and looked on the 
charming mountain scenery. 

The road went in a zigzag up Monte Somma ; we had oxen 
before the diligence ; the fountains rippled between the large 
stone blocks ; some yew-trees were quite green as in spring ; 
and where the trees were old and leafless, and the ivy, so fresh 
and luxuriant, wound about the trunks and branches, even to 
the extremest point, so that the trees appeared in their 
richest verdure ; the whole crown of the tree was a swelling 
green. 

Pretty girls ran alongside the diligence, and offered us fruit. 
The ox-driver sang his canzonet, and whistled a merry cho- 
rus to it. I sprang down from my seat ; my heart exulted at 
the picturesque beauty around us. 

Down in the clefts of the mountain lay the ruins of two water- 
mills \ a large, black bird of prey darted out of the thicket. 
All was wild and solitary \ rain clouds hung in the air above 
us ; mists arose gently from the clefts of the mountains. 
Step by step the heavily-loaded diligence moved on. 

The vetturino declared that we could not arrive at Terni 
in time enough to visit the water-fall. I, who had seen it on 
a previous journey, was resigned. The Englishman, on the 
contrary, raved ; and this time it was not without reason. He 
swore, he stormed, he would 'see the water-fall. 

It was pitch dark when we reached Terni, but the English- 
man would have his way. He called for a guide, had two 
lanterns lighted, got upon an ass, and ordered them to con- 
duct him to the water-fall. 

" But it is impossible for you to see it with two lanterns." 

" Then we can take three," he replied, and rode away. 

The guide looked extremely pleased with the whole arrange- 
ment ; it was certainly the first time that he ever saw the 
water-fall by such a light. 



TRAVELLING WITH THE VETTURINO. 



71 



How they managed to place the two or three lanterns by 
that gigantic fall I know not ; but the Englishman said, when 
he returned, that the water-fall at Terni was not worth the 
trouble of going all that way to see \ he had viewed it both 
from above and below, but it was a poor affair. 

We were to be off again at three o'clock next morning, the 
vetturino informed us, for the road was bad, and we had our 
longest day's journey to make, and we must reach Nepi before 
it was dark, as the country round about there was unsafe. 
Another vetturino with his party joined us ; but still we were 
not in sufficient force. 

The rain poured down in torrents, the road was deep and 
heavy, it was quite dark. We heard a deep hollow sound 
from the mountains ; it was the herdsmen who blew their 
conch-shells to call their flocks together. 

We passed the mountainous town of Rocca at day-break. 
It is very picturesquely situated ; the country around had 
the appearance of the Tyrolean mountains in the summer time. 
Every bush, every tree was green ; the rain had refreshed the 
grass and leaves. The ivy had entwined itself in rich garlands 
around the thick trunks of the trees, and about the cliffs. The 
town itself hung like a swallow's nest on the front of the rock. 
The yellow Tiber wound its way along in the deep below. 

Our Englishman slept ; Signora did the same ; but they 
looked the more lively for it when we afterwards descended at 
Atricoli, a town, the pavement in which seems to have been 
laid down during an earthquake. The inn was so filled with 
dirt that I preferred to eat in the stable, where the smell was 
at least pure, rather than in the greasy rooms. 

The prospect, on the contrary, was splendid in the extreme. 
The mountains had a bluish-green tone ; the valleys extended, 
deep and fruitful. That splendor — and this nlthiness ! Yet 
it is truly said that nothing is perfect in this world. But in 
truth both conditions were here as complete as can be imag- 
ined. The Englishman was so also, in his way ; he went pry- 
ing about after food amongst the new vetturino's passengers, 
and regaled himself with the best pieces that were set before 
him. He became rude toward our peaceful ecclesiastic, and 
began to speak in an uncivil manner to Signora. 



72 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

Unpleasant company, bad weather, miserable roads, and 
poor horses ; everything was united to make the journey a 
penitential one. The sun would not shine into my heart, nor 
would it shine upon the landscape around me ; and the extent 
of country which we had just passed lay in the most charming 
sunshine when I was last here. But nature doubtless thought 
thus : " For that party yonder I need not put on my best ; and 
the poet has seen how beautiful it can be here. He has sung 
my praise, he will not do it better ! " and so she continued in 
her rainy, phlegmatic humor. 

The vetturino declared that the road was now so bad that 
we could not reach Nepi by daylight ; it was too dangerous 
to drive there in the dark; we must, therefore, pass the night 
in Civita Castellane. 

We passed Monte Soracte, of whose snows Horace has sung ; 
and our night quarters lay before us, with old bush-grown 
walls, almost covered with creeping plants. The water rushed 
in a feathery foam over the cliffs. Civita Castellane is one 
of those towns that appear handsome as we pass them, but it 
is an uncomfortable place to reside in. We put up at Albergo 
Croce di Malta, an old cloister, formerly belonging to the 
monks of St. Francis, but now converted into an inn. From 
the street we entered at once into the vaulted stable. It ap- 
peared as if it had been a chapel before ; a high, steep stair- 
case led to the guests' rooms. Cats and fowls sprang about. 
The doors hung on one hinge only, or else were entirely with- 
out. The women of the house sat and plaited their long hair, 
and scarcely knew whether they ought to receive us or not. 

I went about a little, and looked over the building , every- 
thing was in the greatest disorder : in some of the rooms 
there stood beds without bed-clothes ; wet clothes were hung 
up on poles ; in others lay broken furniture, or there were jars 
and pots piled up with Heaven knows what. I descended 
into a narrow yard, inclosed by four dingy piazzas ; in the 
middle of the yard was a deep well ; bats flew by dozens over 
my head ; a little wooden door stood ajar \ it could neither 
be moved backward nor forward. I put my head in ; it was a 
cold, damp church. I saw the high windows, but everything 
within was veiled in darkness. I was not alone ; I heard 



TRAVELLING WITH THE VETTURINO. 73 

footsteps — I stepped aside : two men in black, with broad- 
brimmed hats, like those the Jesuits wear, entered the arch- 
way. 

" Viva Giesu sanguine!" said they, quite softly as they 
passed me. I followed slowly after them. 

When I came up again, I heard that it had fallen to my lot 
to share my room that night either with the nobile or the 
Englishman. I protested against the arrangement, and took 
refuge with the young priest. He had got a sort of pigeon- 
house to sleep in ; and I asked if I might not prepare myself 
a bed on some chairs with him. 

" But I have some religious ceremonies " — he began. 

I begged him not to think of me at all, for that matter, as I 
should fall asleep directly. I now hastily put together a few 
chairs side by side ; the priest, Signora, and her husband, all 
three helped me to drag in the bed-clothes — it was a horrible 
couch ! In the midst of this arrangement came the English- 
man ; he was red in the face, and angry because I would not 
sleep in his company. 

" Will you leave me in this robber hole ? " said he. " Am 
I to lie, and be murdered alone ! The door won't lock ; there 
is a closet in the room with stairs ! In the adjoining room 
there are a monk and a peasant — they look most wretched ! 
Shall I lie there, and be murdered alone ! You are not a 
good comrade ; I shall not speak to you during the whole 
journey ! " 

I thanked him for it. 

It was an unpleasant evening ; and on the same evening — 
but I did not know it then — my tragedy, " The Moorish 
Girl," was performed for the first time in Copenhagen. The 
public were, certainly, much better satisfied that evening than 
the author. 

Although we were two companies of travellers, who intended 
to depart together the next morning, yet all the people in the 
inn advised us to take an escort with us to Nepi, where we 
expected to arrive at sunrise. 

At three o'clock we were all up ; four horses belonging to 
the party forming our escort, tramped outside the hotel. The 
rain poured down ; our Englishman not ready, and when he 



74 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

was, he began a scene of abuse with the hostess, and then 
with the chambermaid. 

At length we set off; two horsemen rode before, and two 
behind. When we reached the gates we met the Roman dili- 
gence, which goes by way of Forti to Bologna ; it also was 
under escort. 

We passed a long bridge, " Ponte del Cujoni," as the vet- 
turino called it, and said that under this bridge the rascally 
thieves concealed themselves when they saw that travellers 
had soldiers with them. How far it was safe to take this way 
I dare not venture to determine ; but I certainly regarded the 
whole as an agreement between the people at the inn, the 
vetturino, and the soldiers, for the latter earned a little money 
by it. Neither now, previously, nor afterward, have I ever 
been attacked in Italy, for we assuredly may travel as safely 
here as in England, or France. 

It was almost broad day when we arrived at Nepi, a town 
which may pass for a first-rate specimen of fllthiness and ruin ; 
the large palaces appeared as if they were deserted by human 
beings, and abandoned to rats and bats. Spiders' webs, cov- 
ered with thick dust, hung in every niche and corner. The 
rain, however, ceased during our stay here, but the gray 
atmosphere hung like a heavy leaden dome above us. 

There was a strange solitude amongst the final branches of 
the mountains. At length we came to the last station, La 
Storta, a little hamlet, a few hours' drive from Rome. 

The first and only inn here looks like a common stable ; 
the kitchen and guests' room is in one. The walls are painted 
with wretched landscapes,, just as one sees them in a bad 
magic lantern, with thick strokes and gross colors, glowing 
and imperfect as in a colored ABC book. All the light 
comes in through the door. In the middle of the floor stood 
a large, square iron box with fire in it, and by the side of it a 
deal table and benches for the guests. Bunches of brackens 
hung under the ceiling to attract the flies, probably that they 
might not spoil the paintings. Poultry and bottles had their 
place on the floor ; the smell of cookery filled the room, and 
we saw everything in a light tone of smoke from the chimney. 
The prospect through the door was bounded by a gravel-pit 



TRAVELLING WITH THE VETTURINO. 



75 



and a dung-hill, with living turkeys. The diligence and bag- 
gage-wagon filled up the remaining space. 

Our Englishman went immediately to the fire-place, looked 
at the different dishes, and at once took what was ready, and 
what he thought was best ; but the hostess of La Storta turned 
on her heel, and in a moment snatched the piece he had taken 
out of his hand, her flashing eyes measuring him from top 
to toe. He pushed her aside. She asked if he were mad, 
and then showed him the meat he had ordered, which was 
still quite raw in the pan. He pinched her fat arm, and she 
raised her kitchen knife. 

Her husband, a little thick man, ran up, held her round the 
waist, and lifted her from the floor. She waved the knife 
about, and a broad stream of words flowed through the house. 
The Englishman's face was red as fire ; he seized a rush 
chair, and held it before him. 

We, however, managed to get peace restored, and then he 
began to eat. He ate as much as three persons. 

" I shall eat for two," said he. " I shall eat, for I am vexed j 
eat, yet only pay three paoli." 

The hostess, however, demanded six paoli ; the vetturino, 
whose boarder the Englishman was at all meals, complained 
aloud. We took the vetturino's part, and the Englishman 
loaded the poor fellow with abuse. 

" He shall have no drink money ! " said he. " I am dis- 
pleased with him ; I am dissatisfied with the food ; dissatisfied 
with the company ! " 

" With the company ? " asked Signora. 

" Certainly," said he, " you are always chattering. Snur-r-r 
— how it clatters ! and your husband is stupid ; he is dumb, 
he has no education, no refinement ! " 

" No education ! " replied Signora. She became quite pale, 
put her arms a-kimbo ; " no refinement ! Husband, take 
your academical certificate out of your pocket, and show him 
that you have education." 

Her little husband was just as pale as herself; he said not 
a word ; his eyes stared wildly around. He took out his 
pocket-book, and unfolded a paper which he held out before 
the Englishman. 



7 6 



A POET'S BAZAAR. 



" Read," said Signora, " read if you can ! — my husband 
not a man of education ! Englishman, look at me ! It is you 
who are an uncultivated fellow ; and you say you have lived 
with princes ! Oxen and dogs have been your companions, 
maladetta I " 

" I don't read," shouted the Englishman in the midst of 
her speech, and struck the paper, set his arms a-kimbo just 
like Signora, and imitated the gobbling of a turkey-cock. 

All at once the hostess stood by the side of Signora j she 
raised herself on one foot, her eyes glistened, she held a dish 
of cauliflower in her hand, and the contents flew over the 
Englishman's head. The hens on the floor fluttered wildly 
about : I laughed, some of the company drummed on the 
table with their fingers, and two ladies belonging to another 
vetturino's party flew to a side door. 

From that moment no one spoke to the Englishman \ he 
got into the diligence, and pretended to sleep. 

From La Storta begins the Campagna of Rome, a large 
grass-grown church-yard — that is the picture it presents. No 
house ; but the ruins of tombs without names, lie by the way- 
side. The shepherds drive their flocks of sheep amongst the 
high thistles. 

" Nero's grave ! " cried the vetturino, as he pointed to a 
monument close by the road. We drove past. I discerned the 
cupola of St. Peter's ; O ! how my heart beat at the thought 
of seeing Rome again. I knew that green Monte Mario. We 
rolled over Ponte Molle, and were inclosed by the white walls 
of the vineyards, until we stopped outside Porta del Popolo. 

The passports were delivered, we received our bulletta ; a. 
soldier got up alongside the other vetturino, whilst the officer 
bade us follow to the custom-house. We followed. 

" Not to the custom-house," was the first word our English- 
man said. He shouted it out of the diligence; he ordered 
them to drive him to a hotel, for he would not be dragged 
about at a soldier's orders. 

" To the custom-house," we all cried, and the vetturino 
drove thither. 

In the Englishman's portmanteau there was found a number 
of wax-candle ends. " I have brought them from the inns 



ARRIVAL AT ROME. J] 

I have slept in ; they stand in the account, and are paid for, 
and I take with me what belongs to me." 
Here we took leave. 



ARRIVAL AT ROME. 

Rome is certainly the only city in which a stranger without 
family or acquaintance can settle and be, as it were, at home. 
A tranquil mind may live here as solitary and lonely as it can 
wish, and the most troubled spirit will find change enough, 
for not a day passes here but it brings something new to the 
eye and to the thoughts. 

A man ought to live a whole year in Rome to be able 
rightly to conceive the picture of this first city of the world, 
which receives its peculiar coloring from each successive sea- 
son of the year. It is just as interesting to see Rome at har- 
vest time, when the dancing girls come from the vine fields, 
as it is to view it in the days of the Carnival, when the merry 
maskers fill the streets. One must be in Rome when the 
snow lies on the mountains, and the sentinel stands on his 
post with the fire-pot before him, whilst the bare-legged boys 
put their feet on the ice and say it burns. One must be in 
Rome in the glowing summer heat, when the cooling fountain 
attracts the singing crowd about it in the evening. 

The traveller from the North, who, as he rolls into the city, 
thinks that he shall see a place that will remind him of 
Nuremberg, or of some still more ancient city, is not a little 
surprised at the animated sight, the beautiful regularity, the 
highly modern buildings that present themselves to his view. 
We at once see a large handsome place, with obelisk and 
fountain, elegant hotels, noble terraces with newly carved 
statues and bass-reliefs; young odor-spreading acacias form 
zigzag avenues one above the other. All the great world roll 
past in splendid equipages ; English ladies and Roman dan- 
dies display themselves on horseback. The only thing that 
could disturb this modern picture would be, if a couple of 
the cardinals' red-painted, clumsy carriages were to come 



78 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

past, with the coachman and footman in perukes and three- 
cornered hats. 

Toward the gate of the city are three streets, called Bab- 
buino, II Corso, and Ripetta ; the middle one is II Corso, in 
which, during the Carnival, horse-races and driving take 
place. It is a fine street, with broad-flagged foot-pavement, 
shops, churches, and, above all, plenty of passers by. Let us 
drive through it, turn into one of the side-streets on the left, 
and we are then in the so-called Spanish Place. 

They tell us that the Tiber once rose so high that it car- 
ried a boat up to this place ; suddenly the water sank, and 
the boat remained there, just where the fountain now is. 
Michael Angelo, who was ordered to make a drawing for this 
fountain, took his design from the stranded boat : so we now 
see, in the centre of the round basin, a stone boat out of which 
the water flows. 

Behind the fountain rises a flight of stone stairs ; they are 
as broad as a street, and as high as the neighboring houses. 
It is the so-called Spanish Stairs, which lead to the French 
cloister for nuns, to the French academy, as well as to the 
finest and most frequented promenades. 

These stairs once bore a disreputable name, in consequence 
of the midnight assaults that took place there. Now that 
lamps have been erected, and a soldier set on guard, such 
things are no longer heard of ; and yet the lamps burn dimly, 
and the soldier always sits, in the evening, in his watch-box. 
During the day this place swarms with beggars with withered 
limbs : some hop like frogs, using their hands to spring on ; 
others lie down at full length, and show their decrepit limbs. 1 

From the topmost step of the stairs, by the walled balus- 
trade, we have a prospect over half of Rome, with its towers 
and cupolas ; but we will not look at it now ; we will follow 
the street before us : it is Via Felice ; and here two kings 
have their dwellings. Where are these palaces situated ? 
See, there to the left, the smallest house of them all, penned 

1 The first who, during my renewed visit to Rome, addressed me with 
an " excellenza," was just the very character I have drawn in The Impro- 
visatore, under the name of Uncle Beppo : he lay here still, with his grin- 
ning face. 



ARRIVAL AT ROME. yg 

in amongst these poor houses, and itself the poorest of them 
all ; two windows without glass, only iron bars across, a door 
with a knocker, and the inscription " Villa Malta." This is 
the King of Bavaria's palace in Rome. Let us enter ; yes, 
the miserable entrance is soon forgotten ; we are in a splen- 
did garden, where large laurel hedges line the walk on either 
side ; the pine-trees lift their green screen around the little 
dwelling, from which we look out over the seven-hilled city to 
the blue Sabine and Albanian mountains. 

The other king's dwelling lies to the right in the same 
street, and looks something more like a palace than the for- 
mer, though the windows are a little irregular. A dark pas- 
sage with stone steps leads up to the rooms, which have only 
bricked floors ; but the walls there are covered with glorious 
images and paintings. 

This is Thorwaldsen's dwelling. 

We follow the street we are in, and stand in a large square, 
so perfectly Roman that nothing can be more peculiar to 
Rome. We see a part of the Capuchin cloister, we notice old 
ruined walls, we behold a row of wretched, small, market 
town-houses, and behind these, one of the most splendid pal- 
aces, inclosing a treasury of paintings and sculpture. To the 
right we have shops, genuine Roman shops, ornamented with 
laurels, garlands of red and white sausages, pyramids of 
cheese, mosaic work of figs and oranges, whole organs of can- 
dles, and everything as tastefully arranged as if there were 
some great feast going forward. 

The lamp before the image of Madonna at the corner 
burns day and night ; a canopy hangs above it ; a little altar 
is beneath, and on this stand flower-pots with waving silk rib- 
bons, whilst the wall itself is covered round about with votive 
tablets ; these are small pictures, representing all the sick- 
nesses and all the misfortunes Madonna has cured and saved 
men from. We see the runaway horses she stopped in their 
flight, we see children fall into wells who yet are saved. It is 
a whole miniature exhibition of miracles — a whole gallery of 
misfortunes which have a good end ; there is no place on 
the house itself for more votive tablets, and therefore the last 
are placed on the opposite wall. 



80 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

But we must take a look at the square itself. In the centre 
of it stands a mighty stone Triton, who with puffed-out cheeks 
blows in the conch-shell, so that the jet of water rises many- 
yards in the sunshine, and plays like a prism, with the colors 
of the rainbow. Splendid white oxen, with horns an ell long, 
lie here detached from the wagons j groups of peasants, with 
variegated ribbons around their pointed hats, stand and play 
mora; girls so healthy-looking and handsome, with golden 
combs in their glistening black hair are looking at a couple of 
dancers. The tambourine sounds — it is merry to see and 
hear. The Capuchin monk, who goes past with his beggar's 
wallet on his back, looks askant with a smile at the happy 
group. 

Yes, here we are, in the heart of Rome ! In this quarter 
strangers generally live ; here we will also stay, and from 
hence make our excursions and see — yes the whole in detail, 
as it revealed itself to me in the most lively manner. 



VI. 

THE BORGHESE FAMILY. 

The Church of San Carlo is in the street II Corso ; song 
and music sounded through the high arches ; a thousand 
lights were borne in procession ; a white, gilded coffin with 
a sky-blue lid stood on a high tressel, surrounded by can- 
delabras with burning censers : but no earthly dust lay in this 
coffin ! In the Church of Maria Maggiore, 1 in the rich tombs 
of the Borghese family, reposed Guendalina Borghese Talbot ; 
here, before this empty sarcophagus, expensive masses for the 
soul's repose were read, and the poor wept for her they had 
lost. 

In the last months of the year 1840, the angel of death 
sailed every night up the yellow Tiber, landed, and traced with 
rapid steps the narrow streets, to the house of the poor, and 

1 One of Rome's most important and handsomest churches ; its forty 
Ionic pillars of Grecian marble are from the temple of Juno Lucina : the 
ceiling is gilded with the first gold that came from Peru to Europe. 



THE BORGHESE FAMILY. 8 I 

to the palace of the rich • and wherever he came, he wrote the 
sign of death over one head. 

In the silent streets by night, in the noisy crowd by day, but 
not visible to mortal eye, the angel of death passed up the 
narrow brick-built stairs and up the broad marble flags. 

In Via Ripetta, one of the three straight streets which lead 
from Piazza del Popolo, there is a small uninhabited house ; 
an ample open bow front forms the two uppermost stories, so 
that from the windows of the Palazzo Borghese, where one 
wing looks toward the narrow side-street, one can see through 
this bowed front into Via Ripetta, see the yellow Tiber, that 
part of it where the ferry is ; the opposite shore, the Church of 
St. Peter, and even the distant hills. The chamber in the Pa- 
lazzo Borghese, from whence we have this prospect, belongs to 
the great picture gallery which extends through several sa- 
loons : here Leonello Spada's concert sends forth its everlast- 
ing tones; here the red evening sky never fades over Lot and! 
his daughters ; Gerardo delle Notti called them into life- 
with soul and flame ; the golden shower pours down on Da- 
nae's lap with that metallic clang which Raphael alone could 
impart to it. 

Through these saloons the angel of death passed in the 
night, with large, expanded wings which covered and concealed 
everything behind them. See ! on his brow the star shines 
and predicts for us an immortality. He is no skeleton, but a 
daring youth who boldly cuts the thread of life. 

Through these saloons the angel of death sped. Domeni- 
chino's sybil seemed to raise her eyes! Caesar Borgia, to 
whom Raphael has given immortality, would have stepped out 
of his frame ; but death's angel swept silently onward, up the 
broad staircase, between the noble statues. 

A son of the Borghese race was ordained to die. And the 
crape veil was fixed to the rich hatchment ; but before it was 
hung up, the angel of death came again ; it sought the mother 
who wept for her child ; he kissed her bosom and she was 
dead — mother and son were dead. 

The poor wept ! There was sorrow in the cottage, there 
was wailing in the rich palace of the Borghese ; but there still 
lived two sons. And death's angel came again \ one soa 
6 



82 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

more must die ; at last one remained, but sorrow was at his 
heart, and fever in his blood. 

" Where is my brother ? " he asked ; and at the same mo- 
ment they bore the corpse of his brother through the gates 
of the palace. 

No answer was given : the angel of death kissed the ques- 
tioner's lips. He also was dead ! 

There was weeping and wailing in the rich and magnifi- 
cent palace of the Borghese ; the best, the kindest mother 
was dead, and with her, three sons ! Eternal Rome shed tears 
— its poets sang to the harp their dirge of sorrow ; one 
touched my heart, I give it here : — 

SONETTO. 

" La Morte della Principessa Guendalina Borghese Talbot, seguita da 
quella di tre suoi Figli. 

" Presso al Tamigi un Fior di Paradiso 

La Fe piantb con somma cura un giorno ; 
Bello ci crebbe in quel suol piu d'un narciso : 
Tanto era in suo candor di grazie adorno ! 

" Quindi la Carita fiammante in viso 

Del Tebro il trapianto nel bel soggiorno, 
E qui destava in tutti amore e riso 
Per la fraganza che spandea d'intorno. 

" Ma il grato olezzo anche su in cielo ascese, 
Onde averlo fra loro ebber desio 
L'Alme ch'ivi si stanno al gaudio intese. 

*' Allora a un divin cenno Angiol partio 

Che svelto il Fior con tre germogli, il rese 
All' amor de' bead, e in grembo a Dio. 

Di. F. F. 



VII. 

THE CHURCHES IN ROME. 

Yes, there are no less than three hundred and twenty- 
eight churches in the city of Rome. To describe them 
would be just as tedious as to read the description ; we will, 
therefore, confine ourselves to three, situated in the same 
quarter : and here let us enter. 



THE CHURCHES IN ROME. 83 

Ascending the Spanish Stairs, we behold the Church Trinita 
dei Monti : a crowd of strangers flock here every Sunday morn- 
ing, to hear the singing and music of the holy sisters. The 
blind beggar holds up the heavy curtain before the door with 
his back, that the crowd may enter with greater ease. He 
rattles his tin box ; no one appears to notice it, for the tones 
of the soft female voices are already heard : it seems to be 
the weeping of angels dissolved in harmony. No spiritless 
sermon disturbs the devotion: the thoughts rise, in music's 
sound, to God. 

The church is light and comfortable ; the sun shines on the 
gilded and ornamented walls. A trellis separates the congre- 
gation from the nuns, who sit around the altar, with the poor 
little girls they educate. Over the trellis is painted a burn- 
ing heart, encircled by a wreath of thorns. Does it mean, 
"The heart shall burn for God in the thorns of the earth 
alone ? " or does it signify, " My heart burns, but the cloister's 
thorns are set around it ? " 

With a life-enjoying look, the strangers stare through the 
trellis at the imprisoned doves. Alas ! which is better : alone 
with God and one's self to sit under the dark cypress in the 
cloister-garden, or to listen to the fluttering birds that fly in 
pairs over hill and dale, where the net is outstretched, and 
the hunter takes his aim ? Ask not the pale young nun ! 
Disturb her not ; she has wept her pains away, and to-day 
she sings her gladness behind that black barrier. 

They related of one of the sisters, who had once sung the 
sweetest of them all, and was palest of them all, that strangers 
had missed her one Sunday morning ; that at the same hour 
two old men dug her grave in the cloister-garden; and the 
spade sounded — it struck against the hard stone \ the earth 
was thrown up, and a marble figure, from the olden time, was 
raised from the earth. A handsome Bacchus, the god of en- 
joyment, rose to the light of day from that grave which was to 
receive one who never enjoyed life. The grave also can be 
ironical ! 

From the Church Trinita dei Monti we wander down the 
street, turn round the corner, and stand before the Church of 
the Capuchins. Within its walls are to be found beautiful 



84 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

paintings ; in the cloister there are cool walks ; they encompass 
a little garden, where the citron-trees grow, their branches 
heavy with fruit ; but we will not linger here. Beneath the 
church, yet not under ground, is a row of chapels, and these 
we will visit The sun shines in here ; through the barred 
windows the air blows fresh and pure, and yet we are amongst 
the dead. The floor, ceiling — all the small chapels here are 
constructed entirely of human bones ; whichever side we look 
we see nothing but the joints of bones ; they form rosettes, 
rings, and figures. One of the skulls has two hip-bones, 
placed in such a manner beside it that they look like two 
wings. A throne of bones is raised in one of these niches : 
two little children's skeletons hover like angels above it, two 
hip-bones joined together, form their wings. Chandeliers 
made also of human bones hang here, and are drawn up and 
down with a small cord. Hands grasping each other, form 
strange arabesques ; but the floor within each little chapel is of 
earth, mixed with mould from Jerusalem. The remains of the 
monks which are laid here are taken up again after a lapse of 
eight years ; if the limbs still hang together, the dead body is 
wrapped in a Capuchin's cloak, and set up in one of the 
niches, and a bouquet of flowers, or a prayer-book, is placed 
in his hand. 

It is strange to see what an extremely different expression 
can reside in these mummy-like physiognomies. The monk 
who shows you about, will often point to one of these silent 
figures, and say, M He was my friend and brother in the clois- 
ter here ; we were dear to each other : pray for us." 

The whole is a memento mori never to be eradicated, and yet 
the sight has nothing disagreeable in it \ it is the earthly, the 
perishable part we see, but it is present to us in our sunshine, 
in our fresh air, — it is as if it mocked itself to soften the 
image of death to others. 

The third church we will visit is Santa Maria degli Angeli. 
It is situated in the midst of the ruins of Diocletian's baths, 
which appear as if they were a part of the old walls of the 
city. They occupy a considerable space. One part of it 
seems to serve as a store-house for hay, another is transformed 
into a large hospital ; close up to this, through a row of broken- 



THE CHURCHES IN ROME. 85 

down arches and shattered walls, is seen an entrance as if into 
a chapel. We enter, and stand in one of the largest and 
handsomest churches in Rome. 

It is Diocletian's bathing room. Immense columns, each a 
single block of granite, still stand proudly and unchanged 
from his time. 1 

In this church there is something very pleasant, and refresh- 
ing as if one were in the open air under the shade of the pine- 
trees, and at the same time all is so solemn, solitary, really 
Catholic ! The walls display some of the finest paintings. 
Here is Domenichino's " St. Sebastian," and Carlo Maratti's 
" Baptism of Christ." 

In the chapel-like building which we pass through to enter 
the church, lie the remains of Carlo Maratti to the left, and 
Salvator Rosa to the right, with the bust of each over their 
graves. Opposite these two tombs are two others, on which 
the epitaphs appeared to me the most beautiful and full of 
meaning that I have hitherto read. They run thus : — 

" Corpus humo tegitur, 
Fama per ora volat, 
Spiritus astra tenet." 

The other is not less significant, — 

" Virtute vixit, 
Memoria vivit, 
Gloria vivet." 

In none other of the large churches in Rome do we find such 
solitude as here : we see but a few strangers slowly moving 
upon the marble floor, and a monk drawing the curtain aside 
from one of the hidden paintings. The door of the cloister 
stands ajar, and if we have peeped in, we feel a desire to 
remain here ; for in the cloister, as in the church, there is 
nothing depressing to be seen. Large, cool, refreshing ar- 
cades inclose a garden full of the largest cypresses that Rome 
can boast. I have never seen any poplars higher or more 
luxuriant than these trees, which cast their broad shade over 
a fountain. 

One feels an inclination to work with the monk who plants 

1 The eight columns are each sixteen feet in circumference and forty- 
three in height. 



86 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

roots and herbs in the little gardens outside the cell. Every 
garden here is like an arbor of vine leaves, oranges, and 
lemons. The warm rays of the sun play between the dark 
green leaves, and, as it were, blend with the golden, lustrous 
fruit. 

From this odorous, green chapel of nature the monk wan- 
ders into the church, bends his knee, and praises his God in 
quiet loneliness. 

VIII. 

FAIRY PALACES IN REALITY. 

"The old gods still live ! " Yes, one can say so in a story 
— but in reality ? that is itself often a romance. 

The child who reads " The Arabian Nights," sees in imagin- 
ation the most magnificent enchanted palaces, and feels happy 
in his half-belief; but then comes the child of maturer growth, 
and says, " Such things are not to be found in reality ! " and 
yet they are to be found here. The Vatican and St. Peter's 
Church in Rome present a vastness, a pomp, and an appear- 
ance similar and equal to those palaces which fancy has raised 
in the old oriental book, "A Thousand and One Nights." 
We must ourselves see them, and learn if the old gods still live. 

We now stand in St. Peter's Place, and perceive to the right 
and left three rows of arcades. The church directly before us 
is in every respect so vast that we have no measure to describe 
it ; it harmonizes so perfectly with the " place," and with the 
mighty Vatican close by, that we can only say, " Yes, it is a 
large three-storied building ! " But we look at the crowd that 
throng up the stairs, and which extend the whole breadth of 
the building, and they are reduced to pigmies as soon as 
the eye has conceived the proportions of the doors and win- 
dows. We acknowledge the magnitude without having as yet 
understood it. 

In the centre of the place stands an obelisk. There are 
two fountains, one on each side of this obelisk. Look at these 
in conjunction with all, and, with respect to all around and 
about, they are of a suitable size ; but if we regard them by 



FAIRY PALACES IN REALITY. 87 

themselves we see that they are astonishingly great. It is re- 
lated of a foreign prince, that on seeing this immense mass of 
water, he cried out, " That is enough ! " imagining that this 
extraordinary display was only made in honor of him, and at 
an immense expense, and that it was delusion — a brief appear- 
ance of reality ; but the water continued to spring : and the 
fountains spring yet with the same freedom and fullness. It 
is beautiful to see, when the sun's rays paint a rainbow on the 
falling drops. 

From St. Peter's Place we proceed to the right through a 
closed passage into the yard of the Vatican, which is encircled 
on three sides by that gigantic building. In the same great- 
ness of style as St. Peter's Church, and placed in juxtaposition 
with it, neither produced that effect it must otherwise have 
conveyed to the imagination of the beholder. 

The soldiers in the costume of the Middle Ages, look exactly 
like the knave of clubs in a pack of cards. They are all hired 
German troops, who keep guard in the arcades and the yard. 
Around every story there is a gallery ; in the uppermost story 
the walls are painted with geographical maps, la fresco. Here 
the Pope can study the lands his predecessors have once 
ruled over. The gallery beneath is a complete pictorial Bible ; 
it is the so-called Raphael's tier. It is only during the few last 
years that they have closed the open arches with windows. 
The paintings are somewhat faded ; the arabesques are partly 
destroyed by exposure to the weather, nay, even scratched out 
by mischievous hands, or scribbled over with the names of 
travellers whom no one cares about. The lowest gallery 
leads into that wing of the palace which the Pope does not in- 
habit, but which contains the richest and most glorious treas- 
ures in the world. 

The whole building, as we know, consists of twenty-two 
court-yards, and eleven thousand rooms — a romantic state- 
ment this, it will be allowed. A few hours' ramble here is as 
if one were in an enchanted palace. The most daring fancy 
cannot in this place invent anything new ; it is controlled and 
rebuked by beholding reality, richer and rarer than its best 
conceptions. 

Let us wander on. 



88 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

Through a trellised gate we enter a passage, so long that 
the distance is almost lost. Everywhere else in the world, 
but not here, it would be called a rich museum. The floor 
and walls present reminiscences of the olden times. We peep 
through a door, and are blinded by the splendor of the 
colors in the many saloons that succeed and flank each 
other. The ceilings and walls are loaded with paintings, but 
none of them fix themselves in the mind ; they produce an 
effect like the colored patterns in a kaleidoscope. This is 
the library, but where are the books ? They stand concealed 
in low cases of white and gold. 1 

We peep through another door ; the light streams through 
the glass roof ; the walls and floor are of polished marble ; 
splendid statues stand on both sides ; they seem to have been 
cut but lately from the marble block, and yet it is more than a 
thousand years since they vibrated to the stroke of the chisel. 
One ought to see these treasures by torch-light : then the mar- 
ble seems to receive life ; the moving light makes the muscles 
appear to swell, the folds of the clothes to move, and the pale 
face to acquire the hue of health. 

But we will pursue our way up the long passage, go up 
some few stairs, and a row of saloons with the most beautiful 
reminiscences of ancient times ; the one saloon richer and 
more splendid than the other attracts us ; we almost become 
tired of beholding : how then can we describe ? The gods of 
Olympus still reign here : the Muses greet us mortals : all is 
greatness and beauty. 

We will only dwell on one small space, and from this we 
must draw our conclusions of the whole. 

We stand in a small yard : the bright sun casts its rainbow- 
colored rays over the high water-jet, which splashes in the 
marble basin. The place is inclosed by open arches, and in 
this are displayed the world's far-famed glories. Here stands 
Antinous, the Apollo of the Vatican ; here the Laocoon writhes 
in eternal pain, encircled by snakes ; here the Gladiators and 
Perseus of Canova inspire delighted admiration. 

One is as if overwhelmed by the greatest productions of 
art ; it is a repose for the mind and eye to look through the 

1 Queen Christina of Sweden's library forms a considerable collection. 



FAIRY PALACES IN REALITY. 89 

windows, and the sight which yields repose is a prospect over 
Rome and the Campagna to the mountains ; it is a view over 
small flag-paved yards or beautiful gardens, which in the win- 
ter time display the most alluring verdure. All the avenues 
are of laurel-trees ; the roses appear to start out from the high 
continuous walls, the water wells forth from artificial grottoes 
and caverns. 

Should we not believe it a dream of romance ? And yet 
all here is reality, marvelous reality. 

Through a vestibule built in the Egyptian style, filled with 
grand sarcophagi, each of one single costly stone, we enter, — 
yes, what ? A museum it cannot be called, it is too small — 
we enter one of the pyramids of Egypt. The whole saloon 
is decorated like one of the largest and most magnificent bur- 
ial chambers in the pyramids ; the walls are painted with col- 
umns and tropical plants ; the ceiling is arched like a firma- 
ment — an African starry firmament ! of the purest ultramarine 
color, and with myriads of rich gilded stars. We feel ourselves 
in Africa ; we are in the midst of the pyramids, and round 
about, silent and dark, sit the strange images of gods ! In 
die side chambers stand the mummies, some of which are 
freed from their cerements, others quite inclosed and concealed 
in their painted chests. 

From these shapeless images in stone, these glaring colors 
which confuse the eye, we will go to the most perfect works 
that art can boast. We find them in a small picture gallery, — 
treasures that can only have been selected from a hundred 
others, — and the way thither leads through many saloons, 
some with the variegated tapestry of the Gobelins, for which 
Raphael supplied the drawings, others with maps, and the 
ground-plans of towns painted in fresco. It is as if every sa- 
loon in the Vatican would outvie the other, either by its treas- 
ures of art or by its peculiarity. 

We now stand amongst the immortal pictures. Which way 
shall we turn — to what room — toward which wall ? There 
we see Domenichino's dying Jeronimus hovering in the clouds ; 
Raphael's Madonna del Foligno, and his last work the Trans- 
figuration. Here, Perugino, Giulio Romano, Titian, and the 
greatest masters of Italy greet us. Strange enough ! a small 



90 A POETS BAZAAR. 

animal-piece by Paul Potter is seen like a little flower in 
every-day life, amongst these glories and clouds. It stands 
by the door, like a modest guest in this paradise of art ; but 
it is not unworthy of its place. 

Large folding doors open, and we stand amongst Raphael's 
painted poetry, and wander through saloons whose walls own 
his immortal works. What nature, fancy, and purity in each ! 

And what remains, after having seen this magnificence, — 
what remains of man's works that can astonish us by a greater 
richness and splendor? We pass through two saloons ; large 
doors open into what we should call lofty churches, but here 
they are but chapels ; they are filled with splendor, and 
adorned with paintings ; but we go on, lift a curtain, and stand 
in St. Peter's Church. All is marble, gold, and mosaic work. 
We stand in the largest church in the world ! 

" Yes, it is great, but not so great as I expected ! " is the 
general expression the first time we enter. It is here, as in 
nature ; the space is too great for the eye to measure it. The 
proportions are too gigantic ; we must first walk through the 
church, we must see that mass of human beings which seems 
to fill the place without, which moves here within ; we must 
approach the marble dove that appears to hover in the point 
of view where we stand, and then see that we must raise our 
hands to be able to touch it. 

The mosaic angels in the dome appear to us so insignif- 
icant ! and yet, ascending to them, we find that they are sev- 
eral yards in height : looking down, the cross at the altar far 
below us towers aloft like one of Rome's palaces. 

We must ascend the flat roof of the church, and when we 
are there it is as if we were in a market-place ; the several 
cupolas appear like chapels, and the largest an immense 
church. Round about on the roof are erected small houses 
for the craftsmen who are at work upon it. Here are furnaces 
and lime-pits ; here is a little town ; merry children play 
about on the great open place, and climb up the high parapet 
to look over Rome and the Campagna to the sea and moun- 
tains. 

We ought to see St. Peter's Church during the Easter week, 
to see it in the evening, and in bright sunshine ! It is per- 



FAIRY PALACES IN REALITY. 9 I 

fectly like enchantment to witness what they call the lighting 
of the dome ; yet it is not alone the dome and the cross high 
above it that stream with lights, but it is the whole immense 
building with the colonnades around the place ! We see 
everything in a hue of fire j the lamps are so richly diversi- 
fied, and placed in such situations, that the whole architec- 
tural design stands forth confessed. It has a great effect, on 
such an evening, to go from the illuminated place into the 
church itself, where all is night and stillness ; but directly 
under the dome, by the high altar, beams a glory of several 
hundred silver lamps, placed on the parapet around St. Peter's 
grave. We climb up to it, and look down into the chapel 
shining with gold and silver, where the marble figure of a 
kneeling Pope prays in silence. There is such a peace, such 
a devotion in the quiet of the church and in this venerable 
man's figure, that we ourselves are filled with both, and, like 
the Catholic, feel a desire to bend in adoration to the Invisible 
Almighty. 

We must wander through this divine temple by sunlight, 
when it is solitary, and the beautiful voices stream from the 
side-chapel : we must come here during the great festivals : 
the music vibrates, the incense perfumes, thousands kneel 
down and receive an old man's blessing. Everything beams 
with light, everything glows with gold and colors ! The most 
famous pictures dispersed through Rome's palaces are here 
copied in mosaic work, and are made altar pieces. Yet one 
altar here has no painting or mosaic ; two gigantic figures in 
papal robes support a throne, but no one sits in it except the 
invisible God. Immense marble statues stand forth from the 
shining walls. 1 

But what does that dark bronze statue, under a throne 
covered with gold and purple, signify ? The papal guards 
stand on each side, and the people kiss the feet of that bronze 
figure. It is the image of St. Peter. It was once Jupiter's \ 
the lightning is torn from his hand ; she now holds the keys. 

• 1 Each statue here represents the founder of an order of monks ; thus, 
we see the prophet Elias ; a burning wheel represents the glowing car in 
which he ascends to heaven ; he stands as the representative of the Carme- 
lite monks. 



9 2 



A POET'S BAZAAR. 



The old gods live yet in Rome. The stranger bends his knee 
to them in the museum ; the people kiss their feet in the 
church. The old gods still live ; that is the beginning and 
the end of the story. 

IX 

CHRISTMAS EVE IN ROME. 

The further the Swede, Norwegian, and Dane travels from 
home, the louder sings the heart of each when they meet. 

" We are one people, we are called Scandinavians ! " When 
I was in Rome, in 1833, the three nations kept their Christ- 
mas Eve in company, like one family. Song and mirth do 
not agree with the Roman solemnity on the Saviour's natal 
festival, therefore, we could not be merry within the gates of 
the city ; but yet we did not lose our pleasure. No city is so 
tolerant as Rome. They let us have a fine suite of rooms out- 
side the city gates : a large house in the Villa Borghese, in 
the midst of a grove of pines close to the modern amphithea- 
tre. We ornamented the saloon with garlands and wreaths ; 
the flowers we plucked from the garden. The air was mild 
and warm ; it was a Christmas like a fine summer's day at 
home. 

We must have a Christmas-tree, a fir-tree, as in the North ; 
but here it was too valuable a treasure. We must, said they, 
be contented with two large orange-trees which were sawn 
from the roots, and were full of fruit which was not fastened 
to the branches, but which grew out of them. We were about 
fifty Scandinavians, including seven ladies, who wore wreaths 
of living roses around their brows ; we men had wreaths of 
ivy. The three nations had subscribed to purchase presents 
which were to be gained by lottery. The best prize was a 
silver cup, with the inscription, " Christmas Eve in Rome, 
1833 : " this was a gift from the three nations. And who won 
it ? I was the lucky one. 

Toward midnight the elder part of the company broke 
up and returned to Rome. Bystrom and Thorwaldsen were 
amongst them, and I accompanied them. 



CHRISTMAS EVE IN ROME. 



93 



The city gate was locked, but that we might enter we were 
told that we must give three loud raps with the knocker, and 
cry out, " Gli Scandinavia 

I thought of Holberg's comedy, where Kilian knocks at the 
gates of Troy ; and so I took hold of the knocker, gave the 
signal, and our password, " Gli Scandinavia 

A little wicket in the gate was opened, and one by one we 
crept into that city of the world. 

It was a merry Christmas ! The night was warm and mild 
as a summer night in the North. 

And now, the same evening, in 1840, no one had thought 
of any arrangement for Christmas. 

Every one sat at home. It was cold weather ; the fire in 
the stove would not warm my chamber. 

Thought flew far away ; it flew toward the North. 

Now, it whispered, there is the Yule-tree lighted up with a 
hundred parti-colored lights ; the children exult in sweetest 
happiness ! Now they sit around the table at home, sing a 
song, and drink a health to absent friends. There is hilarity in 
the town, there is mirth in the country, in the old mansion. 
The passages are ornamented with firs and lights ; carpets 
are laid on the stairs ; the servants, neatly dressed, trip busily 
up and down. The music sounds, and the procession begins ; 
it proceeds to the large ball-room ! O, Christmas is a merry 
time in the North. 

I left my solitary chamber ! People flocked to the Church 
Maria Maggiore. 

Some few lamps burned within the church. Men, women, 
and children, who had wandered hither from the Campagna 
and the mountains, sat and lay on the steps leading to the 
chapels and altars in the side aisles. Some of the poor 
folks had fallen asleep from very weariness ; others counted 
their beads. 

The candles were now lighted. The whole church shone 
with purple and gold. The incense spread its perfumes, the 
music resounded, the anthem announced " Glory to the new- 
born King ! " The old Cardinals bore the cradle of Christ on 
their shoulders through the aisles of the church, and the people 
saw a ray of glory around it, brighter than that shed by the 



94 



A POET'S BAZAAR. 



the thousand lights. It was as if the shepherds sang, and as 
if the angels sang. And there came peace and good-will in 
the human heart. 



X. 

THREE ROMAN BOYS. 

We find large palaces in Rome in narrow, winding streets, 
which, if they stood in an open place, would be pronounced 
buildings of consequence. I will draw such a one with pen 
and ink j and I hope so correctly, that my readers will be able 
to find it again when they know that it is in the street Ripetta 
they must look for it. 

High piazzas, with finely wrought marble pillars, inclose a 
little square court-yard ; statues stand between the pillars, and 
in the niches of the walls are disfigured marble images. The 
walls are covered with bass-reliefs, and above are colossal 
heads of Roman emperors. Grass and creeping plants hang 
about the pedestals, and shoot forth from the folds of the mar- 
ble drapery. The spider has spun its web, like a mourning 
veil, between gods and emperors. In the yard lie cabbage 
stalks, lemon peels, and broken bottle cases. Earth has col- 
lected in heaps around the sides of the marble sarcophagi 
that stand here ; they once inclosed some of Rome's mighty 
men ; now, they contain broken pots, salad leaves, and earth. 

The broad marble stairs which lead to the saloons of the 
palace are still dirtier than the yard. Three bare-legged, 
half-frozen beggar-boys sit here in a circle ; the one has a rag- 
ged carpet thrown over his shoulders like a cloak, and a reed 
as a tobacco-pipe in his mouth. The other has a covering 
for his feet of rags bound together with pack-thread. His 
coat is so large and wide that it would fold twice round the lad, 
and I really believe it serves him, in addition, for trousers. 
The third has a hat on, and for the rest a waistcoat, I believe 
no more, unless, perhaps, the slipper that lies at the bottom of 
the stairs, may claim him for its master. All three are playing 
at cards. 

Can it interest you to know a little more of these three young 



THREE ROMAN BOYS. 



95 



Romans or their families ? Perchance the chief personages 
of the family are assembled at this moment on the terrace by 
the Piazza del Popolo. Here stands a group of black-bearded 
men in striped clothes of blue and white ; it is a well-known 
uniform, to which there is generally a chain appended, but it 
is usually worn around the legs. These are the Roman galley 
slaves. The first one resting there on his spade is father to the 
boy who wears the ragged carpet as a cloak across his shoul- 
ders. Yes, that is the father ! But he is neither a thief nor a 
robber ; he is only a scoundrel ! It is a short story. To vex 
his master he became a slave. To vex his master he has placed 
contraband goods in his wagon, and he took care that they 
should be found ; for the law in Rome demands, in such cases, 
that horses and wagon, if even the master be innocent, shall be 
forfeited and given to the police. The man becomes a slave 
but the master must give fifteen bajocchi to support the slave ; 
this is a great expense. If the fellow be industrious, then 
every year of his imprisonment consists but of eight months, 
and he receives the highest payment for his work. 

This is the shrewd calculation he makes, as he leans on 
his spade : — 

" Master has lost his wagon and horses ! Master must 
every day pay money for my board ! I have free lodging, con- 
stant work, the highest wages, and I am an extolled slave ! 
and that is, perhaps, more than my son will ever be." 

On the promenade close by, rolls a light little gig. A rich 
Frenchman, of some thirty and odd years, is driving. He has 
been in Rome before ; it is more than eight years ago. He 
now shows his young wife about in the first city in the world. 
They have just seen to-day a beautiful female statue by Ca- 
nova, and admired it ; and the Frenchman knew those graceful 
forms which are now immortalized in marble — but he did not 
say so. The beautiful Giuditta is dust ; her son is the second 
boy amongst the card-players ; he wraps himself up in his 
large coat, and the father wraps himself up in his rich mantle, 
as he hurries on along the promenade. 

The third little fellow, with hat and waistcoat ! Yes, where 
shall we find his parents ? yet we have the scent. 

Under a tree in the avenue stands a little wrinkled woman 



96 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

with her fire-pot on her arm ; she begs for a little money in 
the name of Madonna ! She cannot be the boy's grand- 
mother, still less his mother. No, but she is the only one that 
can tell us something about him. 

In the direction of the bridge Castel d'Angelo, there is a 
street leading from St. Peter's Place. In this street there is a 
large building, and in the walls there is a movable niche dec- 
orated with the same sort of stuff as the slaves' clothes. At 
the bottom of the niche there is a soft pillow. It turns round 
on a pivot, and close by there is a large bell. Nine years ago 
this little wrinkled woman came here, laid a little bundle in 
the niche, turned it round, rang the bell, and hastened away. 
This is the Foundling Hospital. 

The third boy comes from thence. The old woman could 
tell us the whole story, but of what use would it be ? The 
rich young Signora is far away in that floating Venice, a pattern 
of severity and of pure morals. But her son — he is well off! 
he sits on marble, and plays out the trumps. 

These three boys are good subjects for the pencil. The ex- 
pression in the eyes — every movement — the dirty cards and 
the thick cloud of smoke from the cigars ! That is a group. 

They are disturbed by a flock of turkeys, which two peas- 
ants, with long white sticks, drive up the marble stairs to one 
of the higher saloons, where the purchaser lives, and where 
they will have permission to waddle about for some few days 
on the stone floor under the painted ceiling that displays the 
rich arms of the deceased race. 



XI. 

RELIGIOUS CUSTOMS. 

Most persons require some sensual provocative, ere on 
fixed days and hours they are able to raise their minds to de- 
votion ; and the Catholic Church service has such an in- 
fluence, but it loses too much by the ceremonies. It seems 
as if the Church had not rightly understood the doctrine, that, 
unless we be as children, we cannot enter the kingdom of 



RELIGIOUS CUSTOMS. 97 

heaven, — for it often regards its congregation as children, 
who see and believe, who live in dreams more than in 
thought. 

Every festival that I have seen in Rome included a really 
fine idea or thought ; but the explication thereof was often, if 
I may use the expression, made too corporeal. They would 
show to the external sense what only belongs to feeling, and 
hence, a soulless caricature, not a devotional picture, was pre- 
sented to view. 

I believe that all well-educated Catholics will agree with 
me in this ; for whenever my religious feelings have been 
wounded at these festivals, I never saw any other congrega- 
tion than people of the very lowest class, whose mental con- 
ceptions stand on a level with the child's. 

There is, undeniably, something beautiful in the idea that 
Christians one day in the year remember the first Christian 
brethren who suffered and died for the faith, and, as it were, 
sealed its power and holiness with their blood. Thus the 
Catholics have a feast for the martyrs, and one of the most 
splendid churches in Rome is dedicated to them. It is 
opened but once in the year, the 26th of December, when all 
within is a blaze of light, and the floor as well as the way 
thither is strewed with evergreens ; but here nothing is shown 
to impress the thought of greatness of mind in the martyrs, or 
of strength in the belief which gave them courage to offer up 
their lives for it. The death of the martyrs is represented in 
glaring pictures round about : we see a row of horrible execu- 
tions ; here the breasts of a woman are cut off; there one is 
torn to death ; here the eyes are plucked out ; there another 
cut limb from limb, and then roasted or boiled. 

We turn away from these disgusting scenes ; the mind feels 
oppressed by this sight, instead of being filled by spiritual 
greatness. 

There is something poetically beautiful in celebrating 
Christmas as a children's festival ; but the manner in which 
it is celebrated in the Church of Ara Cceli in Rome, annihi- 
lates the beauty of the idea by its material performance. 

One of the side chapels in the left aisle of the church is 
completely transformed into a theatre, with side scenes, wings, 
7 



98 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

and decorations. The scene presents a rural country. Here 
sits a figure representing Madonna, dressed in real clothes ; 
on her lap rests the infant Jesus formed of wax, and glittering 
with gold and jewels ; Joseph stands by her side, while the 
shepherds bring their offerings. The Almighty, surrounded 
by angels, painted on pasteboard, is seen in the clouds. 

The Papal soldiers keep guard before this exhibition, which 
is well lighted ; a table is placed by one of the nearest pillars, 
and on this mothers set their children, and those quite little 
ones of five or six years : one child then runs over a poem 
concerning the child Jesus or Christmas. It frequently hap- 
pens that the little preacher either becomes afraid, and stops 
suddenly, or raises his little voice so comically, that the whole 
audience begin to laugh. But it is not only one that speaks ; 
we often see two, or even three little girls placed side by side, 
who carry on a dialogue in verse about Bambino's beauty. 

This festival is at its highest on the 6th of January. I was 
there : it was a rainy day, with a sirocco ; the strong perfume 
of the incense was oppressive, being blended with the per- 
spiration and breath of the garlic-eating peasants, and the 
dirty, ragged beggars. I felt myself quite unwell. The festi- 
val, however, went on. A little girl said her verse boldly ; a 
mass was sung, and then the procession through the church 
to the little theatre commenced. One of the monks climbed 
up to it, took the infant Jesus out of Madonna's arms, and 
then crawled down again with it ; but at this moment a whole 
choir of music joined in with the liveliest airs. Cymbals and 
drums resounded through the church ; it was a march like 
one in an opera buffa ! It was intended to express the 
heart's jubilee, that an infant Saviour was given to mankind ; 
but this scene made my blood run chill. I felt myself seized 
with disgust, and sought the door. Some peasants, who at- 
tempted to cross the aisle through which the procession was 
to pass, were struck on the chest by two powerful monks, so 
that they staggered back ; but I, as a stranger, was allowed 
to pass. I sought the doorway, but the whole procession fol- 
lowed, quick march, behind me, and were on the high stairs 
as soon as myself. The rain poured down ; the bishop raised 
the infant Jesus in his arms to the crowd without ! All fell 



RELIGIOUS CUSTOMS. 99 

on their knees. A cry from the nearest monk of " An urn- 
brella ! an umbrella ! the child will be wet ! " sounded in my 
ears. 

I felt as if I had left a profaned temple of God. " Father 
forgive them, they know not what they do," was my involun- 
tary prayer. The church, Jesus, and the Virgin Mary, -were 
too holy in my breast for these meretricious ceremonies. 

I must speak of another festival, which, considered as to its 
intention, is Christianly beautiful, but which, carried into 
effect, is more comic than edifying. The design is this : that 
even animals should partake of the Lord's grace and blessing. 

On a certain day, or rather in a stated week, — for if one 
day be not sufficient, the festival is extended to several days 
in succession, — the peasant leads his ass, and even sometimes 
his pig, to St. Anthony's Church, to be sprinkled with holy 
water, and thereby preserved from sickness and witchcraft. 
All the horses, from the vetturino's broken-down hack to the 
Pope's own steeds, come to the church, which stands open, 
and on all the altars are candles. The floor is strewn with 
evergreens, the walls thickly hung with pictures, painted al 
fresco, but miserably executed. They are representations of 
St. Anthony's temptations. In one place the devil comes and 
knocks at his door ; in another place the devil stands mock- 
ing at the glory of the saints. The whole space before the 
cloister is filled with people. Here are groups for a painter ! 

Side by side stand carriages filled with strangers all stand- 
ing up to see the show ; horse-soldiers keep the streets clear. 
Now comes a carriage filled with children, who are so happy 
because the horses are about to be blessed ; now comes 
another carriage with a pious old married couple, who cross 
themselves as they stop before the cloister door, where the 
monk stands with a plasterer's brush in his hand, and sprin- 
kles the horses with holy water. A chorister gives a picture 
of St. Anthony to the coachman, and for this he receives one 
or more wax tapers, which are afterward consecrated in the 
cloister, and sold at a high price. 

It is quite picturesque to see the peasant boys on the 
horses that are to be blessed ; they do not sit on the back of 
the animal, but quite near the tail. Ribbons of various colors 



IOO A POET'S BAZAAR. 

flutter from their pointed hats ; their jackets and trousers are 
so patched, that one cannot tell which was the original fabric 
of their clothes. 

I saw a little old woman dragging a very small ass along ; 
it had silk ribbons around its tail, and on each haunch was 
pasted a little pig made out of gilt paper ! The old woman 
stood before the monk with great devotion, bowed low, and 
crossed herself. The boys pricked the little ass under the 
tail with long pins, so that the soldiers were obliged to come 
to the aid of the poor woman and her ass. 

From the cloister door the peasant rides in full trot across 
the place to one of the open inns, and enters the room with 
the animal, sits down at the long deal table, where the other 
peasants are seated drinking, in order that he may become an 
animal himself to-day, and gain admission to the blessing. 1 

I must, in this place, mention a festival which, although it 
does not belong to those of the Church, is yet in a manner 
connected with them ; it is the feast of languages in Propa- 
ganda, which they give, as it is called, " in onore dei santi re 
magi" We may, with equal justice, call Propaganda an uni- 
versal academy, or a Noah's ark, just as we feel disposed. 
Young men from all parts of the world are educated here for 
missionaries. Here are children from California to China, 
from Ireland to the Cape of Good Hope ; every one of them 
repeats a poem by rote in his native tongue. But a man must 
be a Mezzofanti to profit by this Babel-like Anthology. 

1 On the same day they lead sheep ornamented with rosettes and gold 
to the Church of St. Agnes, outside the walls of the city, and there bless 
them. The legend, which is very ancient, tells us of St. Agnes, that she 
was equally beautiful and innocent; and that, accordingly, when she re- 
fused to deny her Christian faith, she was led into a house dedicated to 
vice, where the soldiers and vagabonds found women of vicious habits. 
Agnes was dragged naked into a chamber, and delivered over to two 
rough soldiers : but at the same moment, says the legend, her fine long 
hair became still longer and thicker than before, so that it hung like a 
cloak around her shoulders, and down to her feet ; and, as the soldiers 
were about to lay hands on her, a shining angel stepped between them 
and her, so that they were frightened, and fled. Pure and undefiled, she 
met her death on the pyre. A church, dedicated to St. Agnes, is now 
erected where that vile house stood, and a chapel in the cellar is shown 
as the chamber in which she was protected by the angel. The church 
stands on Piazza Navona. 



RELIGIOUS CUSTOMS. IOI 

It is elevating to see how far around the globe this blessing- 
bringing Christian doctrine makes its way ; but it is with the 
auditory in Propaganda as with the spectators at the before- 
mentioned ceremonies ; they have not time to retain what is 
elevating in thought, which the feast itself might superinduce ; 
they are made to laugh, and where laughter predominates 
devotion is gone. 

The young men of the Propaganda receive the Cardinals 
and all strangers who come to the festival ; we are conducted 
to a seat, and after an introduction, which is uttered in Latin, 
poems are recited in forty-four languages. The less the audi- 
ence understand of these poems, the more they applaud ; it 
was so at least on this occasion, when I heard them cheer 
loudest an Ethiopian and two Chinese, their languages sound- 
ing most like gibberish and awaking the loudest laughter. 
During the repetition of a German poem, I saw two Italian 
monks of the Capuchin order laugh to a degree, at what was 
to them so curious a language, that they were nearly falling 
to the floor. 

The most different languages and dialects are to be heard in 
this place ; sometimes they also sing a song which may be very 
interesting, but is never pretty. The impression of the whole 
feast is that of a burlesque representation. We understood 
nothing, and laughed at what sounded meaningless in our ears. 

Meanwhile, we read year after year in the German newspa- 
pers about the great effect of this festival ; but the effect is 
really only this — we laugh. 1 

All the ceremonies I have described made so deep an im- 
pression on me, that I could not pass them over ; albeit there 
is much, great and peculiar, that I shall omit from this my 
collection of pictures of Rome. These pages, however, would 
press upon my mind like a millstone if I thought they could 

1 The young ecclesiastic, a German, who showed me my place in it, talked 
with great animation of the celebration, and repeated several times, " One 
only gets such sights in the world's city, Rome ! " This expression, which 
has nothing remarkable about it in itself considered, I would not bring for- 
ward here, had not a correspondent o f Allcgemeine Zeitung, in a bombastic 
account of the Propaganda feast, put these words into my mouth, to show 
what an effect this display had upon all foreigners. 



102 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

give offense to a single enlightened Catholic ; but this I can- 
n t believe. I have stated facts ; but I respect everything 
that is truly religious in every creed, and in every sincere be- 
liever. 



XII. 

THE CASCADES OF TIVOLI. 

It was in the beginning of February, but on a beautiful 
sunny day : the almond-trees were in bloom. A carriage, 
wherein were three Danes, 1 rolled down the old Via Tibur- 
tina, past the Church of St. Lorenzo ; they must see the fall- 
ing waters at Tivoli by torch-light. Ruins of monuments 
of ancient times, and shattered towers of the Middle Ages, 
stand conspicuous on the rugged Campagna. Herdsmen in 
sheep-skin jackets, and with a picture of the Madonna on their 
pointed, sun-burnt hats, lean against the dilapidated walls 
where a fire is lighted, and from whence the blue gray smoke 
rises into the air. 

We already felt the poisonous stench from the little river 
Solfatara. It is but a rivulet, yet its poisonous vapors have 
killed all the fresh shoots of grass and herbs around it ; a 
brimstone yellow scum flows down the foul water. We drove 
at full gallop, and were soon out of that pestilential district. 
The river Anio, with its fresh stream, rush grown banks, and 
picturesque tower bade us welcome to the mountain territory. 
The road was on an ascent, and always amongst trees ; a 
magnificent olive grove was before the town. A strange tone 
of atmosphere enveloped the large, extended Campagna. That 
blueness, that violet color in the mountains far distant and 
close by us, and the dark green in the leaves of the trees, had 
an imposing effect. The sun, as it went down, cast a red, 
fiery light on the trunks of the trees ; they appeared to be 
gilded ; the sound of bagpipes was heard under the declivity 
of the mountain. The whole was a picture of a fine southern 
evening's delicious tranquillity. With the buoyancy of youth, 
we all three exulted in this beautiful expanse of nature. 
1 Conrad Rothe, the poet H. P. Hoist, and the author. 









THE CASCADES OF TIVOLL 



I03 



The sun went down at no great distance from that point in 
the horizon where the dome of St. Peter's rose enthroned, 
and it was soon dark evening. We wandered through the 
dusky streets to the opposite side of the town ; to Albergo 
del Sibilla, which takes its name from the old Sibyl's temple, 
that is built to the very edge of the precipice overhanging the 
foaming waters. We heard from the road the wild continuous 
thunder of the large cascades. A guide lighted his torch ; 
another followed us with two large bundles of hay, which 
were to be lighted in the grottoes in front of the falling waters. 
It was almost entirely dark in the little garden without ; the 
flame of the torch merely illumined the nearest hedges. The 
sky was covered with stars, but they shed no light. We fol- 
lowed a little path between the bushes, ever on the descent, 
and were all the while deafened by the roar of the water-fall 
below us. That we were only able to see the nearest objects 
around the guide, who bore the burning torch, and that all the 
rest lay in utter darkness, gave a touch of the romantic to the 
adventure. Not one of us knew whether the abyss in which 
we heard the water foaming was behind the nearest hedges, or 
close by the green sward on which we sometimes trod. 

The path soon became quite narrow ; we had the steep rock 
to the right, the abyss to the left ; the guide struck his torch 
upon the ground, so that it was almost extinguished, then 
swung it in the air, and it again threw out a flame, whilst the 
pitch-black smoke whirled away over the glittering leaves of 
the trees. 

All at once he stopped, uttered a wild shout, and pointed 
upward to the inn. Aloft on the edge of the rock and di- 
rectly over us lay the round Sibyl's temple. They had lighted 
a bundle of hay between the columns ; the fire threw a. flam- 
ing light on the pillars and walls, which looked as if they con- 
tained a burnt-offering ; the waters still sang their majestic 
hymn with the same voice of thunder as on one of those 
nights consecrated to the goddesses ! For a second the whole 
temple was surrounded with rays of the most exuberant light, 
and then it was again night — dark night. 

We held on our way down the narrow path : incrustations 
hung in picturesque diversity over our heads ; close to us was 



104 A F0ETS BAZAAR. 

a declivity — how deep was this? The light from the torch 
disclosed no bottom : the waters roared quite near us. We 
had to hold on by the green hedges that we might not fall 
into the deep. The cliffs, like a natural staircase, soon led us 
into the Siren's grotto. In order to understand each other we 
were obliged to shout at the very top of our voices, for the 
cascades rush through the grotto with an almost deafening 
sound. Fire was quickly set to a bundle of hay ; the clear 
flame lighted up the cavern, which was dripping with water. 

The red flame of the fire played on the white watery col- 
umn, which, with the lightning's speed dashed from an im- 
mense height, and forced its way through an opening in the 
cliff. The guide threw out burning hay upon the foaming 
stream, and the hay burnt as the water whirled it along into 
the yawning abyss, and for a moment it showed us the deep 
whirlpool. 

A few years ago, a young Englishman slid from one of the 
slippery stones where a little cross-beam is now placed, and 
disappeared forever. The now reigning Pope, 1 Gregory 
XVI., to prevent the town from falling in suddenly, — for it 
is undermined by the many water-falls, — has made a new 
outlet to the river Anio, which outlet forms the cascades, so 
that by these means a water-fall has been produced, which in 
size surpasses all the others. When I visited Tivoli in 1834, 
this work was in operation, and was completed two years 
afterward ; where I then walked and plucked flowers, there 
now foams, and perhaps forever will foam, Tivoli's largest 
cascade. To this cascade we now directed our steps ; but we 
were first obliged to ascend the rugged and slippery steps. 
We had again to hold fast by the fresh myrtle branches close 
by the precipice ; and at this critical moment, in a situation of 
imminent peril, the torch went quite out. The thought ran 
through me that we must remain here for the night, that we 
must sit down in the hedges, and not move a foot — or it is 
death. A moment of dead silence followed : the torch flew 
whizzing in the air ; the guide had thrown it with all his 
strength against the rock. The flame blazed faintly again, and 

1 It may be unnecessary to tell our readers that, since Andersen wrote 
this work, Pope Gregory XVI. has been succeeded by Pius IX. — Trans. 



MY BOOTS. 



*°5 



soon after gave a brilliant light. He now went brisker forward 
up a broader path, singing as he went. By degrees everything 
showed the influence of art over nature. Here were strong 
railings and walled stairs, with a steep descent. The torch 
shone over the balustrade ; a cloud of water broken into foam 
rose up toward us. The whole stream fell into the dark, 
giddy deep, looking like the whitest milk. We passed through 
a long arch in which the river had its new bed, and through 
which it approached the fall with the swiftness of an arrow. 
Here was no balustrade ; the torch lighted up the stream, 
burning hay was thrown into it, and it glided swift as the flight 
of a bird into the dizzy pool. I felt all my nerves assailed ; 
I was obliged to cling to the wall, and fix my eye for a time 
on the firm arch above me. It was impossible to understand 
one another here, so loud was the roaring of the powerful 
stream. Half an hour afterward we all three sat in a large 
room above the falls, around a well furnished table. We 
spoke of Denmark and of all our dear friends ; healths were 
drunk to them, whilst the cascades and cataracts thundered 
in chorus. 

It was an evening full of poetry. We stood arm in arm by 
the open window ; the stars glistened so brightly that we 
could discern the foaming masses of water like a white veil in 
the depth below us. They joined in with their loud and eter- 
nal song — a song such as no poet can sing. 



XIII. 

MY BOOTS. 
A TRUE STORY. 

There is a street in Rome which is called Via Puriflcazione, 
but we cannot say of it that it is purified. It is an up and 
down sort of place \ cabbage stalks and old broken pots lie 
strewn round about ; the smoke rolls out of the door of 
the osteria, and Signora opposite — nay I cannot help it, but 
it is true — Signora opposite shakes her sheets out of the win- 
dow every morning. In this street there are generally many 



J06 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

strangers ; but this year most of them remained at Naples 
and Florence, for fear of the fever and pestilential sickness 
that was in Rome. I lived quite alone in a large-house, not 
even the host or hostess slept there at night. 

It was a large, cold house, with a little wet garden, in which 
there were only a row of pease and a half-blown gillyflower ; 
yet in the neighboring gardens, which were at a higher eleva- 
tion, stood blooming hedge-rows with monthly roses, and trees 
full of yellow citrons. The latter bore the continual rain well ; 
but the roses, on the contrary, appeared as if they had lain 
for a week in the sea. 

The evenings were so lonesome in the cold, large rooms ; 
the black chimney yawned between the windows, and out of 
doors were rain and drizzle. All the doors were well secured 
with locks and iron bars ; but of what use were they ? The 
wind whistled and screeched through the crevices in the doors ; 
the few sticks in the chimney blazed up, but they did not throw 
any warmth into the room ; the cold stone floor, the raw walls, 
and the high ceiling, seemed only to be adapted for the sum- 
mer season. 

If I would make myself comfortable, I was obliged to put 
on my fur-lined travelling boots, surtout, cloak, and fur cap ; 
yes, then it was well enough ! It is true, that side which was 
turned toward the fire-place was half roasted : but in this 
world one must know how to change sides, and so I turned, 
like a sunflower. 

The evenings were somewhat long, but then my teeth began 
to give some nervous concerts, and it was remarkable how 
they improved in dexterity. A real Danish toothache is not 
to be compared to an Italian one. Pain played on the keys of 
the teeth, as if it were a Liszt or a Thalberg. Sometimes it 
rumbled in the foreground, and then anon in the background, 
as when two martial bands answer each other, whilst a large 
front tooth sang the prima donna's part with all the trills, 
roulades, and cadences of torture. There was such harmony 
and power in the whole, that I at last felt no longer like a hu- 
man being ! 

From an evening it slid into a night concert, and it was dur- 
ing such a one, whilst the windows shook with the storm, and 



MY BOOTS. 1G7 

the rain poured down without, that I cast a half melancholy 
look at the night lamp. My writing materials stood by it, and 
I saw quite distinctly that the pen danced over the white 
paper, as if led by an invisible hand \ but it was not so, it did 
it of its own accord. It wrote after dictation — and who dic- 
tated ? Yes, it sounds strange, but it is true. I say it, and 
you will believe me — it was my boots, my old Copenhagen 
boots, which, because they were soaked through with the rain, 
had earned a place in the chimney by the red embers. If I 
suffered from toothache, they also suffered from water-ache ; 
they dictated their own biography, and this I think will throw 
a light on the Italian winter of 1840-41. 

The Boots said : — 

" We are two brothers, right boot and left boot. Our first 
remembrance is, that we were well rubbed in with wax, and 
then extremely well brushed up and polished. I could see 
myself in my brother, and he could see himself in me ; and 
we saw that we were one body, a sort of Castor and Pollux, a 
species of Siamese twins, whom fate had determined should 
live and die, exist and not exist with each other. We were 
both born in Copenhagen. 

" The shoemaker's boy carried us in his hand forth into the 
world, and the first glimpse awakened sweet but false expecta- 
tions about our destination. He to whom we were consigned 
immediately pulled us by the ears till we closed round his 
legs, and then he went down the stairs with us. We creaked 
with joy. It rained outside, but we still creaked ; but only 
the first day. 

" Alas ! how much wet there is to get through in this world ! 
We were not born to be water-proof boots, and therefore did 
not feel ourselves happy. No brush gave us the lustre of our 
youth ; this lustre we possessed when the shoemaker's boy 
carried us in his hand through the streets ; who can therefore 
depict our happiness when we one morning heard that we 
were to travel abroad — yes, to Italy, that sunny, warm land, 
where we should tread on marble and classic ground, drink 
in the warm sunbeams, and surely regain our youthful lustre. 
We travelled. During the longest routes we slept in the port- 
manteau and dreamed of the warm lands. In the towns, on 



108 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

the contrary, we looked well about us, but it was wet and raw 
as in Denmark. Our soles got a gangrene ; they were obliged 
to be parted from the body in Munich, and we found ourselves 
with new soles instead : but they were made as well as if they 
had been born with us. 'Were we but over the Alps,' we 
sighed; 'it is fine and mild there.' And we got over the 
Alps, but it was not fine and mild there ! — it rained and it 
blew : and if we happened now and then to tread on marble, 
it was so icy cold, that the marble drew the cold perspiration 
out of our soles, and the damp traces of them remained where 
we had trodden. 

" It was quite lively in the evening when the waiter num- 
bered all the boots and shoes in the hotel ; we were placed in 
a row amongst these foreign comrades, and heard from them 
about the places they came from. There was a pair of beauti- 
ful red morocco bodies with black feet (I think it was in 
Bologna), and they told us about the warm summer in Rome 
and Naples ; they told us about their climbing up Vesuvius, 
where the feet were burnt off them by the subterranean heat : 
alas ! we almost desired to die in such a manner. ' Were we 
but over the Apennines ! were we but in Rome ! ' — and we 
went there ! But now we have groveled in rain and sludge 
week after week ! But one must see all things, we suppose, 
and there will never be an end, either of curiosities or pouring 
rain ! Not a warm ray has refreshed us ; the cold wind has 
gamboled around us ! O Rome ! Rome ! to-night, for the 
first time, we will drink warmth from the blessed chimney, 
and we will drink till we burst ! The upper leathers are all 
gone, and our bodies are giving way : they will burst too ! 
But before we die this happy death, we wish this our history 
to be noted down, and our dead bodies brought to Berlin to 
rest with him who has had courage and manliness enough to 
depict ' Italien wie es ist /' to the truth-loving Nicolai " — and 
having said thus much, the boots fell together. 

It was quite still ; my night lamp went out ; I dozed a little, 
and when I awoke in the morning, I thought it was a dream ; 
but I looked into the chimney ; the boots were quite shrunk 
up ; they stood like mummies standing amid the cold ashes. 
I looked at the paper as it lay by my lamp ; it was a gray 



THE EMPEROR'S CASTLE. IOQ 

paper full of ink spots ; the pen had really passed over it, but 
the words had all run into each other, for the pen had written 
the boots' memoirs on gray paper. I noted down what I still 
remembered ; and the reader will recollect that it is not I, but 
my boots, who cry " Woe ! " to — la bella Italia ! 



XIV. 

THE EMPEROR'S CASTLE. 

However bad the winter may be in Rome, it yet has days 
beautiful as the finest spring days in the North. We feel a 
desire to go forth into the green fields and gardens : and both 
are to be found there. The roses stand in flower \ the laurel 
hedges shed their perfume ; we have many places to choose 
from for our promenade. We will now visit the ruins of the 
Emperor's Castle. They lie on a whole mountain plain or 
table-land in the middle of the city. Here are vineyards, gar- 
dens, ruins, and miserable houses ; here are fruitful, arable 
land, and barren spots where the ass munches its thistle, and 
the goats seek the mossy grass. 

Out toward the Forum there still stands a row of firm 
walls. Large hedges and hanging plants spring over the 
slope like the waters of a cascade ; tall cypresses carry their 
heads aloft, towering above the rest ; we saunter down the 
broad carriage road, and stand before a villa in the midst of a 
garden so green and fragrant that we cannot believe it to be 
winter, and we are in the month of January. Mignonnette, 
gillyflowers, and roses spread their perfumes around ; citrons 
and oranges shine on the trees through the dark leaves. We 
stroll through an avenue of laurel-trees toward a natural bal- 
cony which the wall presents toward the Campagna ; we see 
below us the solitary tombs of the dead, the yellow winding 
Tiber, and far in the distant horizon a crystal stripe : that is 
the Mediterranean. 

In the midst of the garden which we enter are two consid- 
erable openings in the earth ; they are quite round, and from 
the topmost edge to the bottom, as far down as one can see, 



IIO A POETS BAZAAR. 

they are covered with luxuriant evergreens. One might sup- 
pose that each of them was a crater, which, instead of lava and 
ashes, threw up flowers and shrubs, with which the whole ex- 
tensive ruin would in time be covered. Under these open- 
ings are large vaults, so deep that the daylight cannot reach 
the bottom. Here, where perhaps the marble basin once 
stood, and beautiful women bathed their graceful limbs, sur- 
rounded by the rays of a thousand lamps ; where the incense 
shed its perfume, and where song and stringed instruments 
resounded, there now hops a clammy frog. Perhaps it is one 
of those mighty empresses, herself doomed to drag her wet, 
heavy limbs along in the dark below, where she, in by-gone 
days, hatched wicked, murderous thoughts ! 

Stay there below in the darkness of night, thou unhappy 
one ! Here above the roses bloom ; the warm sunbeams kiss 
the laurel-tree's green leaves, and the stranger drinks in a 
beautiful draught of the South that will never be obliterated 
from his mind. 

We wander away from these luxuriant green gulfs, and fol- 
low the path that winds between flowering shrubs over steep 
declivities, and a wooden staircase leads us down into another 
part of the castle, to a cabbage-garden. The mosaic floor has 
disappeared, the rain-worm crawls forth from the wet earth, 
where in former times Rome's emperor with his court sat 
round the groaning board. Here the precious dishes sent 
forth their savory odors: here were flamingo tongues, and 
peacocks' hearts ; here, during the meal, those great ones of 
the earth changed their rich apparel ; here they displayed 
themselves in their false locks, painted skin and eyebrows, 
gold dust in the hair, and with shoes whose- soles were per- 
fumed with salve. The poor gold-laced slave stood as immov- 
able as the cabbage stalk now ; if he coughed or sneezed he 
was cast into the fish-pond to feed the fishes that were to grace 
the emperor's table. 

How many reminiscences are connected with this place, 
where Caligula, Commodus, and Tiberius reigned. The poet 
casts these mad emperors' names with disdain into the world, 
where curses will be heaped upon them till the day of judg- 
ment ! Even the school-boy in the smallest town in the far 



ST. CANUTE. I J I 

North shakes his little fist, and cannot pray to God for these 
wicked men. 

These corrupt spirits hover above the ruins of the Emperor's 
Castle ; they fly with the rapidity of thought around the world, 
and only rest where a curse is pronounced over their lives and 
actions ! Fly over sea and land ! No relationship, no polit- 
ical connection, nothing screens you now — you stand alone! 
Man judges ! God forgives ! 

Where extravagance and luxury poured out its cornucopia 
there now grows the frugal cabbage ; the walls which in- 
closed those sensual vices now bear the fig-tree's broad leaf 
of modesty, and the peaceful olive grows where blood once 
flowed. We will remember Titus, remember the noble-minded, 
whose life casts a lustre on remembrance ; we will look at the 
beautiful scented roses, and forget that fallen greatness in the 
charms of eternal nature ! 



XV. 

ST. CANUTE. 

Denmark is certainly a Protestant land ; but the names of 
many of its saints live in Rome in the mouths of the people, 
or are connected with one or other place. 

In many a Danish village church is still to be seen the 
image of Madonna, either painted high up on the walls 
under the lofty ceiling where it is not whitened over, or even 
on the altar-piece. The church-bells in the Danish villages 
ring at sunset, as they did in the time of Catholicism, the Ave 
Maria. 

St. Canute was the first saint I heard named when a 
child, though my Lutheran Catechism did not mention a word 
about saints. A fine old church, in my native town, bears the 
name of this saint, whose bones rest behind its altar. 

St. Canute was once a greater saint than king in Den- 
mark ; a thousand lights burned at his altar, and the guild 
statutes boasted his name. When a child, I heard the history 
of this Danish king, who, because he laid a tax on the Jut- 



112 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

landers was pursued by them to Funen. He rested on the 
way thither, and the stone on which he sat was much softer 
than the hearts of his enemies : we yet see the traces on the 
stone upon which he sat. I saw it when a child, and I be- 
lieved the legend. The King sought refuge in the Church of 
St. Alban, in Odense j his enemies flocked thither, and 
his own servant, Blake, was the betrayer of his master. 1 A 
stone was thrown through the church window ; it struck the 
King on the head, and he sank in his own blood before the 
high altar, where he prayed. His relics were revered and he 
was made a saint ; even in Rome an altar was raised to his 
memory. 

When a child I never passed St. Canute's Church in the 
evening without shutting my eyes ; and then I always saw 
most distinctly the pale, dead King, with the gold crown on 
his bleeding head, and clad in his mantle of velvet and 
ermine, gliding beneath the lofty arch from the font up to the 
altar. 

On the right hand side of the street, leading from the 
Castle of St. Angel o toward Piazza di San Pietro in Rome, 
there is a monk's cloister with a church, — I believe it is called 
Transmontane, — and amongst the many altars within it is 
one consecrated to the Danish King Canute. He stands in 
the altar-piece with his gold crown on, and in a mantle of 
velvet and ermine, just as when a child I imagined him to be, 
wandering in the church which contains his bones. 

The nineteenth of January, according to the " Diario Ro- 
mano," is the feast of St. Canute. The rain poured down, 
and it was miserable weather ; but as a Dane I could not do 
otherwise than go to see the Danish saint's feast celebrated. 

I entered the church : there was not a being there ; two 
small tallow candles burned so dimly and looked so sordid, 
and these stood on the altar of St. Canute. 

I could not bear the thought of it ; I must at least know 
why a little more was not done for him. I rang the bell to 
the cloister, and an old monk came out. I asked him why 
St. Canute had no more than two candles, and why there 
was no music or other festival ceremony. 

1 From this comes the Danish saying, " false Blake." 



THE COLISEUM. II3 

" Alas, sir ! " said the monk, " our cloister is one of the 
poorest in all Rome ! We can only afford to celebrate one 
great festival in the year;" and he mentioned the saint's 
name. " Then there is music, and the church is radiant with 
light ; but we are only able to do such things once a year ! 
St. Canute is from the North, and therefore our cloister 
never receives anything ! St. Canute is poor ! " 

I felt that the man was right. 

I stood alone before the altar of my childhood's saint, in 
whose church I had wept over my father's coffin, in whose 
church I was confirmed ; the saint whose church once served 
me, in its vastness, for a measure of all mountain heights ; 
yes, even of the distance between the earth and stars. St. 
Canute, all the honors of the universe are perishable ! No 
candle burns by thy tomb in thine earthly kingdom \ and even 
in the city of the Pope thou hast, on thy festival, but two 
poor tallow candles ! The greatest festival thou hast is, that 
thy countryman stands by thy tomb and sketches this sorrow- 
ful picture in remembrance of thee, St. Canute. 



XVI. 

THE COLISEUM. 

I have heard several interesting lectures concerning the 
gigantic forms in the antediluvian world, but I never under- 
stood them better than when I once saw the skeleton of a 
mammoth. It filled a considerable space in the large yard 
where it was laid ; long grass grew out of the spinal bones and 
round about the side bones ; one might have thought it was 
the hull of a vessel, and not the carcass of an animal that had 
once lived. 

The Coliseum is a mammoth's carcass of another species ;. 
it is a stone skeleton that proclaims the departed greatness of 
Rome better than books can do ; it is a ruin, an incredibly de- 
vastated ruin. Whole palaces in Rome are erected from its 
torn-down walls, and yet there is, in what we still see, a magni- 
tude like that which is found in the Pyramids and rock temples 
8 



ii4 



A POET'S BAZAAR. 



of India. 1 Every colonnade forms large streets; the broken- 
down staircase, from the floor to the uppermost cornice, is a 
whole range of rocks covered with grass and underwood j it 
is a declivity that might hold a small city. Here and there, in 
the topmost parts of the ruin, is a house plastered up, with 
little crooked windows, and in them are persons living. 

The whole ruin forms an open church with many altars : 
the cross stands in the midst under the open sky ; the Capu- 
chin monks come here every Friday in procession, and one of 
the brethren preaches a sermon where, in past times, the wild 
animals roared and howled, while the gladiator wrestled, and 
breathed out his life without uttering a cry of pain. Yonder 
on that sunlit declivity, where the particolored lizard sits un- 
disturbed and hatches its young, sat Rome's emperor, with 
his purple clad courtiers ; and here, where now the ragged 
beggar takes his place, waved the white veil of the . vestal 
maiden. 

One ought to enter this place for the first time by the full 
light of the moon ; a tragedy composed of stone is what we 
then see and read. One ought to wander through these im- 
mense arches by torch-light, and ascend to the very top, where 
the walls are not of stone, but — masses of rock. What a 
dead silence ! what immensity ! The torch-light falls on the 
cobwebs in the corners, where the fly sprawls and struggles ; 
but we think not of it ; we think not of the woes of every-day 
life :, the stones around us have voices, the stars above stand 
in alliance with them ; the soul feels itself expand in the midst 
of greatness. The Coliseum preaches to us about the system 
of the world, about the greatness and the impotence of the 
human race, so that the mind becomes at once elevated and 
humbled. 

1 The Amphitheatre in Verona is still so well preserved that the dead 
of former ages, if they could arise, would think that it was but a few weeks 
since they sat in that place ; but the whole theatre is dwarfish in compar- 
ison with the Coliseum. The same may be said of the Amphitheatre near 
Capua ; it certainly affords the best idea of the machinery of that time ; 
but in magnitude it quite disappears before the Coliseum. 



THE CARNIVAL. 115 

XVII. 



What makes the Roman Carnival so lively, so peculiarly 
splendid, and so far surpassing the same kind of festivity in 
every other place, arises from this cause, that the feast of the 
Carnival in the streets of Rome is confined to six days, and 
on each of these days to three hours. II Corso and the near- 
est side-streets alone contain the scene of this popular amuse- 
ment. Both time and place are concentrated. Mirth here is 
like effervescing champagne : the goblet foams and sparkles ; 
it is emptied directly, and — then follows the fast. 

The Roman Carnival which, with insignificant variations is 
from year to year the same, has been so vividly depicted by 
Goethe that no one can do it better ; therefore, every new de- 
scription is superfluous. I would rather not give any ; only to 
make my picture of Rome a little more complete, I must draw 
a slight sketch of it in this book : the details belong solely to 
the Carnival of 1841. 

The Senator sits in the Capitol clad in purple and gold, 
surrounded by his pages in their many colored dresses : a de- 
putation of Jews enter, and beg permission to dwell for an- 
other year in that quarter of the city allotted to them, namely, 
Ghetto. They obtain this permission ; the Senator gets into 
a glass coach, the old bells of the Capitol ring^and this is the 
signal for the Carnival to commence. 

The coach drives on at a foot-pace toward Piazza del Pop- 
olo, and behind it swarms a crowd of persons from palaces, 
houses, and pot-houses. But the greatest order prevails every- 
where. Any lady may freely venture out in man's clothing ; 
it would never enter any one's head to insult her, or make the 
least sign that could alarm her modesty. 

It is amusing to see how the poorer classes contrive to pro- 
cure a carnival dress : they sew salad leaves all over their 
clothes ; they have them on their shoes, and even on their 
head by way of peruke ; husband and wife, and sometimes 
their children too, are quite clothed in salad. Orange peel is 
cut out, and worn as spectacles; this is the whole of their dec- 



Il6 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

orations, and thus the poor couple wander through the streets 
with the greatest gravity and the most majestic bearing. 

From Piazza del Popolo, the Senator proceeds with his suite 
up II Corso. All the* windows and balconies are hung with 
red, blue, and yellow silk drapery ; places everywhere are 
filled with persons of both sexes, and a great part are in cos- 
tume, with and without masks. Small rush chairs or benches 
are placed close to the houses on the whole line ; they are let 
out, and the more quietly disposed take their 'places there. 
The one row of carriages drives down the line, the other up, 
and both carriages and horses are mostly decorated with ever- 
greens and fluttering ribbons. We often see coachmen, old 
fellows with genuine Italian physiognomies, dressed out like 
ladies, whilst a pug-dog sits by their side dressed like an in- 
fant in long clothes, or as a young miss. Other carnages are 
decked out like steam-vessels, and have a crew of sailors 
clothed alike, or with girls in military costume. When two 
such vessels meet, a violent combat takes place, in which con- 
fetti l pour down on each other, not thrown with the hand, 
but often out of large goblets. The great mass of humanity 
moves along on the footpath, and even between the carriages. 
If two Punches or Harlequins meet, they take each other by 
the arm and push their way on hooting and screaming ; masks 
of the same kind join each other, and they soon become a 
whole flock. Shouting, they force their way between the car- 
riages and passengers on foot ; it is just as if a foaming water- 
spout darted over a gently undulating sea. At sunset, the 
sound of cannon is heard ; the carriages draw off into the side- 
streets, and the soldiers, who have been posted at some dis- 
tance from each other, now collect together and march through 
the streets ; the cavalry ride slowly after ; the second time 
they ride quicker, and the third time at full speed. This is 
the signal that the horse-races are about to begin. 

High tribunes are erected in Piazza del Popolo ; a rope is 
fixed across the street, and behind this are six or seven half- 
wild horses hung round with iron plates, the barbs on them 
being turned inward, and on their backs are fastened pieces 
of burning sponge. 

1 Confetti are red and white balls as large as pease, and made of gypsum. 



THE CARNIVAL. II7 

The rope falls — the horses dart away — silk ribbons and 
tinsel gold flutter and rattle on their manes and sides. " Ca- 
valli ! cavalli /" shout the innumerable crowds, as they make 
way for the flying horses, which become still more wild from 
the screaming of the people ; they rush past, and the street 
behind them is closed again by the enormous swarm. 

Before the horses have reached the goal, they are for the 
most part so exhausted that they come up to an easy trot ; 
meanwhile, the uppermost part of the street is inclosed with 
large carpets suspended from house to house at certain dis- 
tances. If the horses were still in their wildest flight they 
would, nevertheless, be stopped here, entangled, as they must 
be, in these draperies. 

It has a very comical appearance when by chance a dog 
gets into a part of the street that is cleared. The persons 
nearest the poor brute at once proceed to chase it ; the whole 
row follows the example, and the unhappy dog must take his 
way through the whole street. Screaming and clapping of 
hands from both sides keep it in the middle of the street. 
There is such exultation! the poor dog is obliged to run a 
race, and if it happens to be a heavy dog, it appears just as 
miserable as comical ; it can scarcely lift its legs, and yet it 
must gallop, gallop ! 

It is a lively scene in the evenings of the Carnival time, if 
we enter an osteria or wine-house, where we often find a whole 
company of merry maskers, drinking their Foglietta, improvis- 
ing a song, or dancing Saltarello. Whole crowds go through 
the streets with song and tambourine, preceded by a burning 
torch. They go to the theatres, particularly to the smaller 
ones, in their masquerade dresses, and the audience play 
there as much as the actors. I followed such a crowd to 
Teatro Alibert ; about a third part of the public there was in 
costume : knights in armor, flower-girls, harlequins, and Gre- 
cian gods sat amongst us in our every-day dress. One of 
the largest boxes in the first tier was quite filled with pretty 
Roman girls, all dressed like Pantaloon, but without masks or 
rouge. They were so joyous and so beautiful that it was a 
pleasure to look at them ; but they certainly drew the whole 
attention from the stage. A very favorite tragedy was per- 



I 1 8 A POETS BAZAAR. 

formed, called, " Byron in Venice ; or, England and Misso- 
longhi ! " It was very affecting, but the public were merry. 
Up in the gallery there was a common-looking fellow with a 
thick, black beard, but dressed as a peasant girl ; he seemed 
to be much affected by the piece. He formed a curtain over 
the box underneath with his apron, and then with the skirt of 
his gown wiped his eyes and applauded. The eyes of the 
audience were drawn more to him, than to Byron and Misso- 
longhi. 

The last day of the Carnival is always the liveliest ; it con- 
cludes with the bouquet of the whole festival, the brilliant, 
magnificent Moccolo. It was particularly lively this year 
(1841), as the last day of the Carnival was on the 25th of 
February. There came a dressed out married couple on high 
stilts ; they moved adventurously through the crowd of pas- 
sengers and carriages. Here growled another couple dressed 
like bears, the one white and the other jet black, both chained 
to each other; behind them followed a miller linked to a 
chimney-sweep, and then came a man hopping about with 
lottery tickets ; to the end of his hat was fastened a bladder. 
There came another with an organ on a hand-cart ; out of 
each pipe stuck the head of a live cat, which screamed piti- 
fully, for the man had a cord fastened to the tail of each, and 
in this manner he played. One carriage was decorated so as 
to form a throne of flowers, and thereon sat a minstrel. The 
harp was made fast, but above it was a wheel of fortune with 
many flags, and it turned with the wind. Another carriage 
represented a gigantic violoncello ; on each string rode a fig- 
ure ; the treble string bore a fine little lady, and all the four 
strings sang in a loud key, just as the fiddler who stood by 
the side of the violoncello, stroked the person's back with his 
bow. 

Throughout that long street confetti and flowers poured 
down, yet mostly flowers, for this year's February was abun- 
dant in violets and anemones. I saw Don Miguel, not a 
mask, but the real Don Miguel dressed as a civilian, wan- 
dering amongst the crowd ; he had a handful of confetti. 
Queen Christina of Spain had a place in a balcony ; cotifetti 
and flowers were the weapons she was armed with. Now 



PEGASUS AND THE VETTURINO HORSES. 119 

sounded the signal for the horse-race. One of the spectators 
was killed that day by the frightened horses: such things 
occur every year ; the corpse was carried away, and the mirth 
continued. " Moccoli / moccoli 1 " resounded on all sides, and 
in a moment there appeared from all the windows and bal- 
conies, nay, even from the roof itself, long rods, sticks, and 
reeds covered with burning wax-lights. The carriages which, 
during the horse-race, had drawn off into the side-streets, now 
filled II Corso again ; but the horses, the coachman's hat, his 
whip, everything, were covered with burning wax-lights ; every 
lady in the carriages held her candle, and endeavored to 
screen it from the opposite party who tried to extinguish it. 
Sticks with handkerchiefs fluttered in the air. A screaming 
and shouting, of which no one that has not heard it can form 
any idea, deafened all ears : " Senza moccolo / senza moccolo /" 
Small paper balloons with candles in them hovered over the 
crowd and fell down amongst them ; it was in this immense 
street as if all the stars in the firmament, not forgetting the 
milky way. had made a tour through II Corso. The air was 
as if heated by the candles, and the ear was deafened by the 
shouts. Everything was like the wildest bacchanalian feast — 
and then, almost at once, light by light was put out ; we saw 
the last extinguished, and it was dark and still. The church- 
bells rang, and the long fast began. 

Next morning one well packed carriage after the other 
drove away with the strangers — away from that death-like 
Rome, where all the galleries were closed, all the paintings — 
even the altars covered with black curtains. 

They went to Naples. 



XVIII. 

PEGASUS AND THE VETTURINO HORSES. 
A DIALOGUE. 

We have had descriptions of travels in many forms ; but as 
yet, I think, we have had none in dialogue. Early in the 
morning of the 26th of February, 1841, a well-packed travel- 



I 20 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

ling carriage, drawn by two common hacks, and a leader so 
fine, so lively, and so fiery, drove out of Rome through Porta 
Santa Giovanni. This leader was Pegasus himself, and it is 
quite probable that he had allowed himself to be harnessed to 
the carriage ; for within it sat two poets, besides a church- 
singer, so animated, so full of youth's gladness, for he had 
just escaped out of the cloister to study thorough-bass in 
Naples. In Albano, already he threw off the monk's cowl 
and put on the gentleman's black coat ; he might almost have 
passed for a poet ; and then there was a Signora who was an 
admirer of poetry and poets, but she could not bear to ride 
backward. It was, as we hear, a very respectable company, 
even for Pegasus to draw. They took the way to Naples, and 
now we shall hear the dialogue. 

THE FIRST DAY'S JOURNEY. 
PEGASUS. 

The way to Albano is over antique roads, past aqueducts 
of several miles in length, standing proudly like the columns 
in palace-halls, and past bush-grown walled tombs. A Capu- 
chin monk with his beggar's wallet on his shoulders is the 
only person we meet. We approach the tomb of the Ascanii ; 
it lifts its head like a mighty stone Colossus by the way-side, 
bearing its crown of grass and bushes. Sing of it, ye poets 
there in the carriage, sing of Rome's Campagna ! 

THE VETTURINO HORSES. 

Look to it that you draw too ! What is the meaning of all 
those jolts and jumps ? We shall bait in Albano for two 
whole hours ; the oats there are good, and the stable large. 
O dear ! we have a long way to go before we shall get to 
rest this evening. 

PEGASUS. 

We are in Albano ! here, in this street, is a house j we go 
close past it ; it is quite a small one of only two stories. The 
door opens, a sportsman steps out ; he has pale cheeks, and 
jet black eyes. It is Don Miguel, ex-King of Portugal. A 
poem might be written about him ! Hear it, ye poets within 



PEGASUS AND THE VETTURINO HORSES. 121 

the carriage ! No, they do not hear it ; the one is playing 
the agreeable to Signora, the other sits with his thoughts on 
a tragedy. 

THE VETTURINO HORSES. 

Now we have baited, let us prepare to be off again. The 
way is a long up and down one. Don't look at the pile of 
stones ; that is the grave of the Horatii ; it is an old history. 
Now go on. 

PEGASUS. 

What magnificent trees ! What rows of evergreens ! The 
road runs between high rocks, the fountains ripple, and aloft 
on the mountain, between the tops of the trees, rises the 
church cupola of Aricia. The bells ring. By the road stands 
a cross \ beautiful girls pass it ; they bend their knee before 
the cross and count their beads. We approach Genzano ; 
the poets descend from the carriage ; they will see Nemi 
Lake, where there was once a crater. But that is an older 
story than that of the Horatii ! Let us away while the poets 
are .admiring it ; they can reach us at Velletri. Let us be off! 

THE VETTURINO HORSES. 

That first horse is just as if he were mad ! He can't stand, 
he can't go ! yet he seems as if he were old enough to have 
learned to do both. 

PEGASUS. 

Far beneath us lie the green grass-grown swamps, and 
Circe's rocky island by the sea. We are in Cisterna, the 
little town where the Apostle Paul was received by his friends 
from Rome, when he approached that city. Sing of this, ye 
poets. The evening is fine, the stars glisten. There is a 
beautiful girl in the inn at Cisterna : look at her, ye poets, 
and sing of the fair lily in the marshes. 

THE SECOND DAY's JOURNEY. 
THE VETTURINO HORSES. 

Now pray go a little steadily ; not at a gallop ! There is a 
carriage on before us j we must not go past it. Did you not 
hear it yourself ? There are German ladies in it ; they have 



122 A POETS BAZAAR. 

no gentleman with them, and have begged to be in our com- 
pany, being afraid of robbers ! It is not safe here, for we 
heard the balls whistle past us at this place years ago. 



The rain pours down ! Everything stands in water. The 
reed huts seem as if they would sail away from the inundated 
green islands. Let us gallop on. The road here is so even. 
There stands a splendid cloister ; the monks are gone ; the 
vapors from the swamp drove them away, and the cloister 
stands with a green mould on the walls and marble columns. 
Grass grows on the floors, and the bats fly under the cupola. 
We will run in through the open gate, right into the church 
and stop there. Then you shall see how the lady we draw 
has become a beautiful marble image of fear. Then you 
shall hear our orchestra-leader sing ; his voice is so fine. 
He will sing a hymn for his safety, and both the poets will 
tell the world about that dangerous adventure in the Pontine 
Marshes. 

THE VETTURINO HORSES. 

Take care of the whip ! Keep in the middle of the road. 
We shall soon be in Terracina : there we shall rest ; and we 
shall rest on the frontiers, and at the custom-house. This is 
the best part of the whole journey. 



The sun shines on the orange colored rocks ; the marshes 
lie behind us. Three tall palm-trees stand close by the way- 
side. We are in Terracina. What has become of our com- 
pany ? One of the poets climbed the high rocks amongst the 
cactuses ; round about are gardens with citron and oranges j 
every branch bends with the yellow, shining fruit ; he as- 
cends the ruins of Theoderic's castle, looks over the grass- 
grown marshes toward the north, and his heart sings, — 

" My wife, 
My sweet smelling rose ! 
And thou, my darling ! my all, my life, 
My loved one and my pleasure : 
Thou bud of my rose ! " 

H. P. HOLST. 



PEGASUS AND THE VETTURINO HORSES. I 23 

But the other poet sits down by the sea ; yes, out in the sea, 
on the massive rocks. He wets his lips with the briny drops, 
and exultingly cries : " Thou swelling sea ; thou dead, calm sea. 
Thou, like myself, dost embrace the whole earth ; it is thy 
bride, it is thy muse ! Thou singest of it in the storm ; in thy 
rest thou dreamest of heaven, thou clear, transparent sea ! " 

THE VETTURINO HORSES. 

They were capital oats we got at Terracina ! The road was 
also very good, and we stopped so pleasantly long at the cus- 
toms in Fondi. See, now we are going up the mountains ! 
Where are we going to ? First up and then down — very 
pleasant this ! 

PEGASUS. 

The weeping-willows wave in the wind ! The road up the 
side of the mountain winds like a snake past ruined walls and 
olive woods, touched by the rays of the evening sun. There 
is a picturesque town on the rocks above us, and peasants 
driving on the road here below ! There is poetry in these 
mountains ! Come hither, ye who can sing, and get up on my 
back. My poets there in the carriage sit idling. We push on 
in the still starlight evening, on past the Cyclops' wall, where 
the rank ivy hangs like curtains over the caverns that perhaps 
conceal a robber. Away, past the mouldering tomb where 
Cicero fell under the murderer's dagger. We approach his 
villa between high laurel hedges and shining citrons. To- 
night we will dream in Mola di Gaeta. 

THE VETTURINO HORSES. 

That, sure enough, was a devil of a road ! How we shall eat, 
how we shall drink, if the oats only be good and the water 
fresh! May each of us find our manger. 



THE THIRD DAY S JOURNEY. 
PEGASUS. 

The beautiful Signora sat under the leafy roof of the orange- 
trees. One of the poets read Italian poems aloud with a clear 
sounding voice ; the leader of the choir leaned against the tall 



124 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

citron-tree and listened, whilst he looked through the cypresses 
on the sea, where the sun's rays fell on the white sails of the 
ships. The second poet wandered in the fields, plucked red 
anemones, bound wreaths, took now and then a glittering 
orange, then two, and they flew like golden apples up into the 
pure air. There was joy in his heart, there was song on. his 
lips ! he felt: " I am again in Italy ! " 

In the stable stood the horses, each with its head in a man- 
ger ; they also were well off. But where I stood, I, Pegasus, 
there was a little door in the wall, and the door was open. I 
stuck my head out, and looked over the tops of the citron-trees 
and the dark cypresses, at the white town in the isthmus of 
the sea, and I neighed, so that I think the poets must have 
known me by my neighing. 

THE VETTURINO HORSES. 

So, now we are going on again to Santa Agatha, there the 
fodder is good ; and then to Capua, that strong fortification 
with bad water ; but then we approach the end of the journey. 

PEGASUS. 

How blue the mountains are ; how blue the sea is : and the sky 
has also its own brilliant blue. It is one color in three shades ; 
it is love spoken in three different languages. See how the 
stars glisten ; see how the city before us beams with light. It 
is Naples, that charming city, that lively city, Naples — Naples ! 
And then we were in Naples. 



XIX. 

MALIBRAN-GARCIA IS DEAD. 

The theatre St. Carlo was closed, and would be so all the 
time I could stay in Naples. That large, splendid house, with 
its bass-reliefs, appeared to me like a tomb over the queen of 
song — her whom seven years before I had heard here for the 
first time. The queen of song, Malibran-Garcia, is dead ! I 
can so clearly remember the first evening I was here. They 



MALIBRAN-GARCIA IS DEAD. 1 25 

performed the opera of "Norma," which was then new. I 
knew it not ; and I had never heard Malibran. 

The house was filled ; my heart beat with expectation. 
The curtain drew up, the Druids' chorus sounded through the 
forest, and Norma entered in white clothes, with a wreath 
around her brow, as if she were the muse of song herself. 
There stood Norma — Malibran. She cut off the fresh oak- 
branch, and the song commenced — yes, it was the muse her- 
self. I had never before heard such singing : it was as if 
the heart's deepest feelings were revealed in tones ; my 
breast expanded, I felt a momentary chill, such as one always 
feels when something divine is revealed to us. 

She ceased, and a storm of applause filled the whole house ; 
but there was also a piercing whistle — only one, but it rose 
above through all ; the envious snake hissed the queen of 
song. A hundred hands were clinched at the indignity, a 
thousand voices had not power to deafen it. But I had 
only ear and eye for her. What singing, what playing ! and 
it was a handsome woman I saw. " Eviva la divina!" re- 
sounded from every place in that large, full house. Flowers 
fell around her in showers ; and the snake hissed between the 
flowers. 

I heard Malibran afterward in " La Prova," and in " The 
Barber of Seville." What life, what humor ! all were carried 
away by it. There was an exultation, a real Neapolitan ap- 
plause, such as we have no idea of in the North. Voices 
cross each other with the most enthusiastic exclamations ; a 
hundred voices join in, and sing the theme of the song when 
it is ended. In their transports they imagine they also can 
sing. All eyes brighten \ men spring up on the benches ; 
they applaud with hands and feet ; flowers, poems, rosettes, 
and even living pigeons fly from the pit and boxes ? 

It was at the same season of the year as now that I heard 
Malibran in Naples. Everything had then the fragrance of 
newness ; a southern warmth and radiance lay over the whole 
— and now, how changed ! 

At that time there arose a volume of smoke every day from 
the crater of Vesuvius ; at night it became a mass of fire, 
which was reflected in the clear bay. Now, on the contrary, 



126 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

there lay a thick mist around the crater — the giant slept 
within. 

At that time I saw "the blue grotto," whose depth is shin- 
ing water, whose walls vie in color with the corn-flower's 
leaf, and which no poet can describe, nor painter show us. 
It was now almost always closed by storm and surge. 

Vesuvius, Capri's grotto, and Pompeii, the city of the dead, 
were to me the three wonders of Naples, and of these, the city 
of the dead alone greeted me unchanged ; only in what be- 
longed to the dead I again found what my memory valued 
and had sung to me of Naples. In the city of the dead I 
thought of the dead. I thought of Malibran-Garcia, the bird 
of song, in whose tones I had found the expression of all that 
my mind now felt for Italy's wonders and beauty. Italy and 
Malibran were, in my mind, related, like the words and mel- 
ody of a cherished song ; I could not separate them j and 
now she was dead — she, who in so much of what we admire, 
was so like Byron, found her death in that land which gave 
him life. 

On one of the last evenings that I was in Naples, I crossed 
the Largo del Castello. The facade of the little theatre here 
was covered with paintings, which portrayed the most attract- 
ive scenes of the opera or farce that was to be performed 
within. I went to Teatro del Fondo, where the company from 
St. Carlo performed opera. This evening it was "Norma." 
Miss Kemble, whose name is praised in the newspapers, took 
the part of Norma. 

Had England given a living one for the dead ? Miss Kem- 
ble sang — the Neapolitans sat still, quite still. I think they 
mourned. 

Malibran-Garcia is dead ! 



XX. 

A PROSPECT FROM MY WINDOW IN NAPLES. 

It is Piazza Florentina we see — a place just as broad as a 
common street with us in the North, and the length is in pro- 



A PROSPECT FROM MY WINDOW IN NAPLES. I 27 

portion to the breadth. Opposite to this, and close by a nar- 
row crooked street, extends the facade of a little church, over 
the open entrance to which the neighboring dames have hung 
all their clothes out to dry, from the mysteries which should 
not be seen, to the variegated gowns that should be seen. 
Two young priests reading their book of the Evangelists, walk 
up and down the entrance hall. Outside sits an old woman 
selling money. She is the poor man's money-changer j the 
open place is her office ; the little table, whose leaf is a box 
with brass wires across, is her cash chest ; and therein lie the 
small coins which she, for a percentage, sells for the larger 
ones. But the trade does not answer well. Close by her 
stands a fruit shop, variegated like a picture cut out of an 
ABC book, with oranges and lemons. The picture above 
the door, where Madonna quenches the thirst of souls in pur- 
gatory, is a very suitable sign. The whole place is paved 
with broad lava stones ; the poor horses cannot keep their 
footing, and are therefore beaten amidst screams and shouts. 
Not less than sixteen shoemakers sit and sew there to the 
left ; the two nearest the door have already lighted their can- 
dles ; they pull the cap off that poor boy, and throw oranges 
at him ; he seems to protest against their being applied exter- 
nally. In all the houses, the ground-floors are without win- 
dows, but with broad, open shop doors. Outside one they 
are roasting coffee, outside another they are boiling a soup of 
chestnuts and bread, and the man has many customers. Fel- 
lows dressed in rags eat out of broken pots. In the highest 
stories of the houses each window has its balcony, or else it 
goes along the whole story, and has a flourishing garden, in 
which are large tubs, with orange and lemon-trees. The 
ripe fruit amongst the green leaves shines like the Hesperian 
fruit. An Englishman, in his dressing-gown, has his rocking- 
chair out there. Now the chair falls backward, and the 
Briton strikes the stars with his proud head. But far above 
the church and houses rises the rock of St. Elmo, with its 
fortress ; the evening sun shines on the white walls, towers, 
and telegraph. Now the sun is down and the bells ring the 
Ave Maria. People stream into the church ; the lamps 
within shine through the windows. The tavern keeper puts 
lights in his white paper lantern ; the shoemakers have each 



128 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

his lamp j it is a complete illumination. The little old woman 
shuts up her money shop, and her boy lights her home with a 
candle in a paper bottle. There is song in the church, and 
there are noises in the streets ; they harmonize strangely to- 
gether. But what is that ? There is a procession coming 
from the narrow street. White figures, each with a large can- 
dle in his hand j four men likewise in long white frocks, with 
hoods over their heads, bear on their shoulders a bier with 
red drapery ; a young girl dressed like a bride, with a veil 
and wreath of white roses around her brow, lies on the bier. 
Every one takes his hat off for the dead, and the shoemakers 
kneel. 

The procession is now in the church, and the same noise 
is heard in the streets as before. 

That little square is a faithful picture of this large Naples ; 
yes, a very true one ; for the poet sat at his window, and drew 
every feature of what he saw below. 

Toward midnight we will once more look out and see what 
passes. All is still in the square ; not a light is to be seen 
except that dim lamp before the image of Madonna in the 
entrance hall of the church. Now there are footsteps. Some 
one strikes his stick on the. pavement. It is a merry lad ; he 
goes past, and sings of La Figlia del regimento, with all his 
heart, and with a fine voice " viva la gioja I " and he goes to 
find it ; his warm blood, and his glowing thoughts tell him 
where it is to be found. Still many instruments join in. The 
whole place is transformed into an orchestra ; a manly bass 
voice sings a bravura ! they bring a serenade to the beauteous 
one ! Hear how fine it is : " Te voglio bene assail" Will the 
window not open ? Will she not step out into the balcony ? 
No, not she ! All is still in every house : the musicians 
depart, and the square is again empty ! A shadow moves 
along the house j some few notes sound from the guitar, but 
no song ! All is still within ; yet another touch of the guitar, 
and the street door opens quite gently. The young lover 
glides in! " Felkissitna notte /" "Good-night, and sleep 
well ! " we say in the North, and it is a very good wish ! 
He who sleeps commits no sin. The Italians, on the con- 
trary, say : " Felicissima notte I " and the southern sun glows 
in this "good-night ! " 



A NEAPOLITAN COR RICO LO. 1 29 



XXI. 



A NEAPOLITAN CORRICOLO. 



One must see it in its flight ; one must see it packed with 
persons, above and below, before and behind. It is a little 
mass of human beings, who roll forward on two large carriage 
wheels drawn by a poor, jaded hack so hung round with plates 
and tassels, bells and pictures of saints, that it might well 
serve the purpose of a wandering sign for a broker's shop. 

The cabriolet whirls past us, over the broad lava-stone 
paved street. What sort of company is that ? What are they 
thinking of? 

The driver with the large pea-jacket slung over his shoulder, 
and with half-naked brown arm, curses in his heart the steam 
carriage which, light as a swallow, shoots down the road to 
Portici, past green vineyards, shining villas, and rocking boats. 

There sit two ladies close by his side ; the one has a very 
large infant; she handles it like a package without value. 
Their thoughts are in the church : " St. Joseph clothes the 
naked," — they come from thence. Woolen and linen, frocks 
and jackets are given to St. Joseph, Madonna, and Bambino ; 
the whole church was hung with good clothes ; it was a fine 
sight ! A complete shop ! and next day the clothes are to be 
given out. 

" I wonder who will get that splendid red frock with the 
large puffs and broad flounce ? " See, that is worth having 
in one's thoughts. 

On the seat, besides the coachman, the two ladies, and the 
infant, is a respectable man : he generally stands by the door 
of Museo Borbonico, and earns a trifle by taking care of the 
sticks and umbrellas for the many strangers who go there daily 
to see the splendid statues, paintings, and exhumed articles. 
He has just now got it into his head that most of the strangers 
in the galleries might be likened to auctioneers, who only go 
about and look, that they may have every piece written down 
in their catalogue. There's a thought ! 

Besides the coachman, the two ladies, the infant, and the re- 
spectable man, there is not room for more on the vehicle ; but 
9 



I3O A POET'S BAZAAR. 

yet there sits another, a young lad, with a face so brown and 
handsome, such a genuine Neapolitan one ! — what could not 
one do in the North with his eyes ! However, he does not sit 
well, and has therefore laid his arm on one of the Signora's 
shoulders ; but Signora is somewhat old. He looks to one 
side, and thinks of the grotto of Posilippo, the ancient road 
which goes through the mountain, under gardens and villas, — 
a road where it would be eternal night if lamps did not burn 
within. 

He lately passed through it ; carriages whirled past him ; 
a herd of goats, all with bells about their necks, bleated 
aloud — who could hear anything ? And into the bargain 
there came an Englishman riding at full trot : who could help 
being perplexed ? and such was the case with a poor girl. 
She sprang quite frightened into the arms of our young lad ; 
she did not intend to do so ; but what will one not do in a 
fright ! The lamp shone right on her face, and that face was 
beautiful ; so the lad kissed her, — he is now thinking of that 
kiss and that face ; and that is the reason he looks so glad. 

The coachman, the two Signoras, the infant, the respectable 
man, and the lad, — too many for one seat, yet there sits an- 
other on it, a stout monk; but how he sits the Lord only 
knows ; and what he thinks — that I dare not say ! He has 
a prodigiously large umbrella with him ; he is goodness itself: 
he holds the infant whilst the lady loosens her neckerchief; 
but now positively no more can be accommodated, and there- 
fore that half grown lad stands up before the party, whilst 
his little brother sits at his feet and dangles his thin legs 
against the horse's tail. The two boys belong to the theatre ; 
that is to say, the children's theatre or puppet show, where 
they perform tragedies and ballets. The two boys speak in 
female voices ; the one is to act the part of Queen Dido this 
evening and the other her sister Anna ; and so they are think- 
ing about it. 

Behind the vehicle are two fellows ; I think they each stand 
on a stick, for that little bit of board stuck out behind is occu- 
pied by an old fisherman who rides backward, and has his 
eyes and thoughts turned toward a sedan chair in which sits 
a lady, dressed out and quite stiff, with tinsel and rosettes on 



DEPARTURE FROM ITALY. I3I 

her head. She is a midwife they are carrying across the 
street : yes, she certainly sits much more comfortably than 
he does. 

One of the fellows beside him is a sort of — messenger — 
we will therefore not enter into his thoughts ; the other is a 
genius of a pickpocket : his thoughts are just now fixed on that 
red handkerchief peeping out of a pedestrian's pocket. The 
fellow is vexed at his ride ; it will cost him two small coins, 
and — that handkerchief. 

See, now there cannot be any more, neither before nor be- 
hind, neither above nor below. I say below ! — for there we 
have not yet looked, and there are a living turkey, and a man ! 
Yes, in that swinging net under the vehicle are a turkey and 
a ragged fellow \ his head and legs stick outside the net ; he 
has only shirt and trousers on, but he is of a strong, healthy 
appearance. He is extremely well pleased — and he has noth- 
ing to think about ! 

See, that is a Neapolitan corricolo ! 



XXII. 

DEPARTURE FROM ITALY. 
I. 

A GLANCE AT MYSELF. 

It was on the 15th of March, 1841. Portmanteau and trav- 
elling-bag were packed, locked, and standing in the middle of 
the room : the porter came up the stairs as soon as they were 
ready, to take them away. I was about to leave Naples and 
Italy, and I was glad of it. How mankind changes ! 

When I left this land before, I was inwardly grieved and 
sorrowful ; but then it was homeward, toward the North. 
Now, on the contrary, it was to Greece, and the East. 

My readers will pardon my dwelling for a few moments on 
my own person, but it will only be whilst the porter bears my 
luggage down the stairs. 

I have previously given sketches of Italy, which, I am told, 



I32 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

almost breathe of this land's sunlight and beauty. Now, on 
the contrary, many of these pictures are dashed with strong 
shadows ; but they are as I saw Italy at the time ; the odor 
of freshness and newness was gone. The winter was un- 
usually severe, and I myself was both bodily and mentally ill. 
Here in Naples, but a few days ago, fever raged in my blood. 
I was, perhaps, near death. I believe the grim tyrant looked 
through the door at me, but it was not yet time ; he went 
away, and the goddess of health stood where he had stood. 
The spring came just as suddenly ; the snow on the moun- 
tains around wasted away, and the sea was clear and blue. 

A new journey — perhaps a new life — was to begin. This 
last hour was transition's link. 



II. 

LEONIDAS. 

The French war-steamer Leonidas, Captain Lorin com- 
mander, lay in the harbor of Naples. My friend and fellow- 
traveller, Mr. H. P. Hoist* 1 accompanied me to the vessel. 
Everything oh board appeared foreign to me. I myself was 
foreign to them all. A sick Turk lay on some mats, which 
they had spread out on the coal-sacks ; close by him sat a 
figure in a wadded green caftan and a white turban, who, 
during the last few days, had attracted the public attention in 
Naples by his oriental dress ; he was, as I afterwards heard, 
a Persian from Herat. One passenger after another came on 
board : Americans and Italian monks, French ladies and gen- 
tlemen, people from all parts of the world, but none from the 
North, or from its brother land, Germany. 

The signal pipe sounded to clear the vessel. Hoist bade 
me farewell ! It was as if I were to hear a Danish voice for 
the last time, as if my native land and all my dear friends 
spoke this " farewell ! " Now for the first time it appeared 
to me that I was going into the wide world. 

I stood by the bulwark of the vessel ; my eye followed the 

1 Mr. Hoist is a Danish poet of some celebrity. — Trans. 



DEPAR TURE FROM 1TAL Y. 133 

boat, which directed its course with my friend toward the land. 
Hats were mutually waved. He called out " farewell " once 
more from the shore. 

The anchor was weighed ; everything was clear on board, 
and yet we lay still. All the passports were forgotten, and an 
officer was obliged to go on shore for them. We lay waiting 
for half an hour. 

Whilst we are waiting, I will make my readers acquainted 
with the arrangements and conveniences of a French war- 
steamer, as far as I can recollect them. The deck itself 
formed a little street ; above the nedder, and hanging over 
the water, was a small, pretty house for the captain, in which 
was a saloon. Paintings and sailing charts hung on the walls ; 
long curtains fluttered at the open windows, and between these 
stood divans, statues, and a piano-forte. It was not only com- 
fortable, but elegant. Two other wooden houses, each with 
its cabins for the rest of the officers, adjoined that of the 
captain's. On the little open space without stood the helms- 
man at the wheel. An hour-glass and a large handsome 
clock were close by him ; the cabin-boy struck the hours and 
quarters on a large metal bell, which could be heard over the 
whole ship. 

Before the wheel was a flight of stairs covered with carpet, 
with a cast iron balustrade, leading down into the chief cabin, 
where the ladies had their own pretty saloon and separate 
state rooms ; the gentlemen had each his own room ; and 
there was a large splendid saloon, used also as a dining-room. 
Handsome mirrors shone on the bright, polished, inlaid walls ; 
polished marble columns supported the roof, and there were a 
piano, a library, engravings, and newspapers. 

The machinery occupied the middle part of the vessel ; 
above this, on the deck, were erected wooden houses, resem- 
bling the officers'; a few steps led up to each door, and here 
the steward, steersman, cook, and purveyor had each his berth. 
Here was 'a larder, a wine-cellar, and the Lord knows what 
else ; behind these houses was a sort of balcony : it extended 
from both sides of the ship over the water, which we could 
see through the open railings ; and here it was, during the 
voyage, that they washed potatoes, clothes, and vessels of all 



134 A POETS BAZAAR. 

kinds. They were, as one may say, the two back-yards of 
the ship. 

The galley stood in the middle of the deck. It was a 
complete house of cast-iron, and quite filled with pots, kettles, 
saucepans, and all sorts of kitchen utensils. Here was roast- 
ing, boiling, and frying ! 

Close by this, a flight of stairs led down into the second 
cabin, which consisted of a fine large eating-room, which was 
also a sleeping chamber. In the side rooms there was accom- 
modation for from four to eight persons. The stairs leading 
down into the third cabin were in the forepart of the vessel. 
They were somewhat steep ; but when we once got down them, 
we found a light, comfortable room. The divans ranged along 
the walls served as sleeping places. 

The fourth place was on deck, and it was incredibly cheap. 
For one rix-dollar, Danish (about half a crown English), a 
man may be accommodated here, and be carried several hun- 
dred miles. In the East, even the better class of Turks 
choose this department of the vessel. 

Here in the North we cannot form any idea of the comfort 
and cheapness of these Mediterranean steam-vessels. The 
Americans on board, as I afterwards learned, knew how to 
value the treatment they received ; but not as I did. They 
spoke of the swiftness of their vessels, and the great luxury 
on board. " In twelve days," said they, " we have gone from 
America to Europe." 

It was fine weather, and there was gayety on board. A 
theatre was constructed in the large cabin, and comedies were 
performed three evenings during the passage over the ocean. 
They were vaudevilles by Scribe, and some of the officers 
played the ladies' parts. The orchestra consisted of eight 
persons ; the audience partook of ices and punch ; the per- 
formers were applauded, and called out ; and all this on the 
wide ocean ! 

Grateful was I that the French steamer could offer such 
recreations. 

After waiting a long time, the officer who had been sent for 
the passports returned. The steam whistled no longer out of 
the blow-pipe ; the command was given, and we shot our way 



THE STEAMER'S PASSAGE. I 35 

out of Naples harbor, which, refracting the sun's rays, was as 
if filled with floating lemon and orange peel. 

We were not two miles from land when the vessel stopped. 
Something was broken in the machinery, but we had a smithy 
on board. It was soon in order, and again we were on our 
way. 

Addio Napoli ! a rivederci! 



XXIII. 

THE STEAMER'S PASSAGE. 

A poet sings, because, like the bird, he cannot help it : 
something swells in his breast, and in his thoughts. The 
song will out : it spreads like the light, it rises like the waves. 
But very often Nature places a leaf of her great music-book 
before him, and it is a challenge to sing — and then he sings 
from her notes. 

Naples and the whole coast lay like a large piece of music 
before me — a song without words. 

u It is sweet to fly over the sea ! " 

Naples, thou white, sunlit city ! The swarms of beings 
with song and shout flow like streaming lava through thy 
streets ; we hear the sounds ; town after town winds like a 
serpent about the bay ; Naples is this serpent's head, and St. 
Elmo the crown it bears. 

" It is sweet to fly over the sea ! " 

Heavy clouds envelop the top of Vesuvius ; they hang as 
far down as the hermit's cell, but fire burns within the moun- 
tain ; it burns far under the sea, as it burns in the middle of 
our ship, and in my heart ; everything is a volcano ! See, 
the steam carriage darts along the road by the gulf, like a 
fiery rocket. There, between the orange groves, lies Sor- 
rento : the pine by the sea shadows Tasso's house. The 
rocks stand out in the sea like petrified clouds. The moun- 
tain goat springs about the naked promontory. Capri, I greet 
thee, thou adventurous island ! I remember thy palm-trees 
under the wild rocks; I remember thy strange azure-blue 



I36 A POETS BAZAAR. 

grotto, where the sea-foam shines like roses, where the stones 
have colors like a winter sky in the North : the sea is a fire. 
The ass walks over a mosaic floor on the top of the rock, the 
last remains of Tiberius's magnificent saloons. The hermit 
kneels here in silent solitude. Capri, isle of reminiscences, 
we rush past thee. The sun goes down, and night advances 
with her glittering host ! The waves break ; each wave's top 
is like glowing embers ; the water in our wake sheds light, 
and the sky gives light ! 

"It is sweet to fly over the sea ! " 

Now it is night ! The ship-boy calls. " Awake ! awake ! 
Stromboli glows ! Come and see ! " Wrapped up in cloaks, 
we stand by the gunwale ; we look in the dark over the sea 
which shines with phosphoric lustre ; red, green, and blue 
rockets rise in the horizon ; they now pour forth like flames 
— that is Stromboli, the burning island that arose from the 
depths of the sea. It is a child of Etna ; she came with her 
sisters from the sea's depths out of her mother-country. The 
oriental tales say, that on Sindbad's voyage the sailors disem- 
barked on the back of a fish, which they mistook for a sand- 
bank ; they made a fire on it, and the fish dived again into 
the sea. Each of the Lipari islands was also a fish of the 
abyss; men erect their dwellings, and live on its back, — and 
before they know it, it dives down with them. 

We approached it nearer and nearer ! The stars glisten, 
the water is afire ! 

" It is sweet to fly over the sea ! " 



XXIV. 

SICILY. 
A COAST PANORAMA. 

A few summers ago I made the so-called Gotha-Canal voy- 
age through Sweden. Out of one part of this we issue into 
the Baltic, pass a number of sunken rocks, and through an 
archipelago of islands, some of which are so large that they 
afford pasture for whole droves of cattle, or bear a small fir 



SICILY. 137 

* 
wood ; others are but naked stones, against which the waves 
break. We took a pilot at these islands, and all the passen- 
gers had to divide themselves, so that there were about equal 
numbers on each side of the vessel. Large blocks of wood 
hung over the gunwale to resist a probable shock against the 
rocks, and the steamer had now to pass a whirlpool. A mo- 
mentary silence and attention reigned on deck. The water 
spouted up before the cutwater ; it was as if an unseen hand 
seized the ship and swung it about. The rocks lay behind 
us ; we had passed over the whirlpool. I have not read in 
any geography of such an eddy under the Swedish coast ; but 
on the contrary, the whirlpools of Sicily were well known to 
me. Scylla and Charybdis are far-famed names. 

Our ship glided away over the eddying Charybdis ; we 
had no foreboding of it. Where is that wild maelstrom? 
They pointed to the sea close by where we sailed ; but there 
was no particular motion of the waves to be seen. Where is 
Scylla ? " Yes, she still lives." They pointed to a little jut- 
ting rock with a dark, ruinous tower, on the wild coast of 
Calabria. There was a heavy surf here, though the sea was 
tolerably calm. Blackish-gray rocks jutted forth, against which 
the waves dashed with angry roar. It was Scylla's howling 
dog we saw. I think they may be able to hear it in a storm 
from the sandy isthmus of Messina. We approached it ; 
toward the northwest lay the Lipari islands, bounding the 
horizon. 

Sicily, thou mighty tripod in the deep, clear, air-covered 
sea, we greet thee ! Thou vine-leaf-wreathed land, where gods 
have lived, where heroes have fought, by whose coasts the 
fairy Morgana still builds her airy castles, we greet thee ! 

We glided past the light-house, situated on the extreme 
edge of a shoal of sand, where there is a picturesque fishing 
village joining the suburbs of Messina ; it was as if we saw a 
fleet sailing here : a number of ships were cruising about ; fish- 
ermen hauled in their nets and their boats; children were 
playing on the beach. Calabria's rocky coast had a strange 
green and red-brown appearance, quite different from the rocks 
in the north of Italy and Switzerland ; they appeared to be 
moss-grown lava blocks ; the Sicilian rocks resembled petrified 



I 3S A POET'S BAZAAR. 

gigantic bubbles. It looked as if the island had boiled up 
from the deep, and been suddenly transformed into stone. 
Heavy clouds rested on the mountain, as if they were the 
vapors of this ebullition. Etna was not to be seen. 

Behind us lay the bay and Messina itself with its yellow- 
gray palaces and flat roofs. Foreign flags waved in the secure 
harbor, but I could not discover the Danish flag. An eccle- 
siastic from Rome, who stood by the gunwale, pointed toward 
the town, and told us with great importance about a letter 
from the mother of Christ, a genuine letter, which was found 
in the cathedral church ; it was written by her own hand to 
the inhabitants of Messina. He grew eloquent at the remem- 
brance of their celebrated religious feast, at the splendor of the 
church, and the magnificent pageant. A sister of his had 
once represented Christ's mother ; a machine on wheels, it 
might be called a large house, filled with men and women, old 
and young, dressed as angels, prophets, and saints, and at the 
top the prettiest female in Messina representing the Virgin 
Mary, was drawn through the streets by priests and the whole 
brotherhood ! 

" It is glorious in Messina ! " he exclaimed, " Messina no- 
bilis, fidelissi?na ! " 

" There are beautiful women ! " said a young Frenchman } 
" there are Scylla and Charybdis ; they no longer swim on the 
water, but sit under the vine leaves, and with their dark, glow- 
ing eyes, beautiful limbs, and enchanting smile, enchain us ! " 

On Calabria's side lay Reggio, which a few weeks previously 
had suffered terribly from an earthquake. 1 Here under the 
coast a number of vessels had stranded ; now everything lay 
in a warm, smiling sunlight ; yet the smile of the coast here 
has in it something like witchcraft. My thoughts were on the 
millions whose hearts have beat with the fear of death and 
longing for life, under these coasts ; the millions who have 
sailed here, from the time Ulysses steered past the cavern of 

1 The cathedral, town hall, and several public buildings were thrown 
down ; in Naples I saw traces of the earthquake. Many of the houses 
were rent from top to bottom ; in whole streets stood houses propped up 
with large beams : even in Rome there were traces of the shock ; the 
Tiber overflowed its banks and inundated the nearest streets. 



SICILY. I39 

Polyphemus, until now that our arrowy steamer glided over 
this watery mirror, where Fata Morgana shows her airy palace ; 
but no colonnades of rays, no fantastic cupola and Gothic 
towers arose on the blue waters. Yet the coast itself was a 
Fata Morgana for the eye and thought. 

Whole towns and beautiful marble images slumber here in 
the deep grave of ashes and lava ; but above them grow new 
gardens and villas, and dark rocks stand threatening, like 
storm-clouds in the air. 

" All the valleys there," said the young Frenchman, " are 
pretty arbors, and in each sits — not Amor, but those who are 
better than he : the most charming women, warm as Etna, 
and as light as the fairy Morgana ; yet they do not disappear 
as she did when one would seize them." 

The nearest coast of Sicily appeared to me more wild than 
attractive. Val di Demona is the name of this district, and it 
is very appropriate. Taormina with its marble quarry is on 
the cliff above, from whence roars a water-fall. This was the 
merry city of the bacchanals, where Pancratius, a disciple of 
the Apostle Paul, threw the statue of the god of wine into 
the sea. 

From the magnificent ruin, the theatre of the ancients, 
where once a whole people applauded at the performance of 
Aristophanes and Plautus, the solitary herdsman now looks 
out over the sea and contemplates the smoky column from our 
ship — our steaming, flying Etna. 

" But where is Sicily's Etna ? " I asked. " Shall we see it." 

" There it stands," was the reply. But I only saw heavy 
clouds above the rocky coast. I raised my head still more, 
looked almost upward, and there, above the clouds in the 
clear air stood the top of Etna, covered with snow ; yet round 
about the edge of the crater it was melted in long rifts. What 
greatness ! Vesuvius is but a sand hill compared to this giant 
— Sicily's pride and benefactor. It is an amphitheatre for the 
high gods themselves ! Every step forms a zone : the lowest 
shows us vineyards and gardens ; the second is a woody region, 
with its centenarian trees ; the third has but ice and snow • 
the fourth smoke and flame. It always smokes, always spouts ; 
but this spouting and smoking is called repose, if the lava- 



I4O A POET'S BAZAAR. 

stream does not flow for miles around, and throw down towns, 
or devastate vineyards and dales. 

We glided through the Bay of Catania ; the waves rolled 
soft and lightly around. The sun shone clear ; but, as far as 
the eye could penetrate, Etna was covered with snow ; there 
was still a northern winter. At its foot, on the contrary, was 
a southern summer with fresh flowers, with ripe fruit, with 
palms and Indian figs. 

After dinner, when we again came on deck, the sun was near 
going down ; the sea shone like purple and gold ; the air had 
such a brilliancy as I have never before seen. The coasts had 
such a tone, so smiling, so rich in color, that the whole wore 
the appearance of the finest Asiatic landscape. Syracuse lay 
dreaming, but indescribably beautiful. 

" Santa Lucia was born there ! " said our Roman eccle- 
siastic. 

" Yes, and Archimedes too," added I. " It is Agathocles' 
city. And there is Arethusa's fountain ! " 

" Santa Lucia was God's daughter ! " answered the ecclesi- 
astic, and sighed. 

What a sunset ! what a sight ! only to be bestowed by that 
hand which paints the beautiful rainbow on the light, hovering 
clouds. 

The sound of a bell was heard from the coast ; its clang 
was so melancholy, it was like the last tones of a dying swan 
as it bends its head, and descends on its large, extended 
wings, from the air into the calm, the deep blue sea. 



XXV. 

MALTA. 

It was three o'clock in the morning : I heard the anchor 
fall, and knew that we lay in the harbor of Malta. I threw 
my cloak around me, and sprang upon deck. 

The first thing I saw was the waning moon ; its horns were 
so thin and bent, and yet they shone like the full moon in the 
North ; or, perhaps, it was the innumerable stars which caused 



MALTA. 



141 



this brightness in the air. Such a radiant firmament I had 
never before seen, — neither under the clear sky of Italy, nor 
even in our northern winter nights. Venus seemed to be a 
sun, immensely distant, so that it could only show itself as a 
point — but it was a sun's point. Her rays played on the 
water's surface in rivalry with the moon's. The stars in the 
North are but shining glass ; here they are real stones. My 
hands were clasped involuntarily, my thoughts were with God 
in contemplation of his magnificence. There was a stillness 
round about ; not the splash of an oar was heard in the wa- 
ter, not a bell sounded ; all was still as in a deserted church. 

I looked around, and behind me stood a low, yellow, rocky 
wall, whose highest point was formed into an obelisk that 
raised its head toward the stars. Opposite to me and to the 
sides shone large, strange, whitish-yellow palaces, which re- 
minded me of "The Arabian Nights." But between these 
buildings and me lay one large ship close by the other, still 
and dreaming. My eye was bewildered amongst masts. We 
lay in La Valetta's Bay : where we had come in I could not 
discover. 

This, then, was the island which Homer has sung of, and 
of which the Phoenicians had possessed themselves ; Calyp- 
so's Isle, where Ulysses passed years of his life ; the Greeks' 
and Carthaginians' Melita. The island has seen Vandals, 
Goths, and Arabians as conquerors. Count Roger's Malta, 
the order of St. John's far-famed island, is now England's sta- 
tion in the Mediterranean. 

What recollections does not this island call forth ! Yet the 
starry firmament was to me at that moment a majestic scene. 
La Valetta, and all these proud vessels here under the strong- 
est fortification in the world, were but as the frame to the pic- 
ture. The frame was splendid, — one of the most splendid I 
have seen ! But that I forget the frame for the picture is, 
however, pardonable and just. 

I retired again to rest, and, literally speaking, with " heaven 
only in my own thoughts." 

When I once more ascended the deck the debarkation took 
place. Everything on board and around the vessel was life 
and motion. The whole bay was as if covered with boats. 



142 



A POETS BAZAAR. 



Close to us lay two large war-ships with double rows of 
guns, the one above the other. Citta Nuova, Vittoriosa, La 
Valetta, appeared like one large city. The fortifications cut 
in the rock melted together with the buildings themselves. 
The arsenal, a long Moorish building, and most of the palace- 
like houses, all seemed to be formed in the rock itself, as they 
are built of its yellow-stone, and thus seem, as it were, a part 
of it. 

Ships came and went ; the cannon saluted the fortress, 
and were again answered. Boats with the quarantine flag 
rowed quickly past the large vessels. A number of yawls, 
forming complete shops, lay still under the side of our vessel ; 
some with fruit. To each species a particular compartment 
is devoted. Citrons by themselves, oranges likewise, and 
large pumpkins formed the border. There were also figs, 
dates, raisins, and almonds ; the whole formed a variegated 
spectacle. Other boats brought roots and vegetables, and 
others again had shirts, straw hats, and scarfs ; it was a whole 
swimming market. There were some wretched little boats 
which seemed as though every moment they would sink ; they 
were rowed by half-naked boys who came to beg. There was 
a continual movement amongst the passengers who came 
from or went to the steam-vessels, of which no less than seven 
lay there. Turks, Bedouins, monks, and Maltese women 
rowed past. 

Below the steps out of our vessel lay more than a dozen 
boats with screaming watermen, who regarded us as good prey. 
A young Russian officer, with whom I had travelled in com- 
pany hither from Naples, proposed to me that we should go on 
shore, and see the curiosities of the place together. He pre- 
viously agreed to be cashier on our excursion, and we set off. 

Several guides, all Moors, flocked around us at the landing- 
place to be our conductors. We chose one who was only to 
take us to the Hotel de Mediterranea : one rag scarcely cov- 
ered the other, but he bore them as proudly as a prince his 
purple ; a pair of jet black eyes shone from his dark face. 

A draw-bridge leads to the gate of La Valetta ; the walls 
and ditches are hewn out of the rocks, and the ditches them- 
selves afford a sight of the richest fruit-gardens. Here was a 



MALTA. I43 

wilderness of orange-trees, broad-leafed palms, pepper-trees, 
and lotus. 

Within the gates of the town begins a street with fruit 
shops. Fruits of every kind that the South produces meet the 
eye : a sight so rich and variegated is never seen in the 
North. There was a movement, and a crowd like that in 
Toledo Street at Naples : Maltese women completely in 
black, and with a veil held so tight about the head, that one 
could only see the eyes and nose ; English soldiers in their 
red uniforms, ragged porters, and smart sailors, all in busy 
movement. Handsome carriages on two wheels, and with 
only one horse, passed by : the Moorish coachmen ran by the 
side. 

We soon came into larger streets ; all the houses had a 
palace-like appearance, and a peculiar character, on account 
of their number of green-painted jutting windows. All the 
principal streets are broad and airy, partly Macadamized, and 
partly paved with lava, and all so clean — I might almost say 
they looked as though they had been swept and cleansed for 
a festival. 

The hotel we stopped at was as comfortable and splendid as 
if it had been brought hither from Queen Victoria's royal city. 

I was sitting with a French newspaper in my hand, when I 
heard a noise without. My Russian travelling companion had 
offered our Moor but a few halfpence for his trouble, and the 
fellow would not accept so little. I saw how small the sum 
was, and found that it ought to be greater : the Russian said 
no, and opened the door. The Moor laid the money on the 
step, put his foot on it, and with a look which, on the stage, 
would have had its effect, expressed his pride and anger. I 
would fain have given the man more money, but the Russian 
placed himself between us, gave the servants a wink, and they 
turned the dissatisfied man out of doors. And so that inci- 
dent was over. 

I, however, went out soon after into the street, where I 
expected to find the Moor, and there he stood, surrounded by 
a flock of ragged fellows. The money which the servant had 
laid outside the door, lay there still in the same place. I 
tendered him about three times more than had been offered 
him, giving him to understand that it was from myself. 



144 A F0ET ' S BAZAAR. 

His eyes rolled in his head. He pointed once more to the 
few coins the other had offered him, showed me his rags, and 
held my arm back. He would not accept anything j shook 
his clinched fist toward the house, and went away proud as 
a mortified noble. This first scene in Malta put me out of 
humor. 

We next went to the cathedral, which is consecrated to St. 
John. It is just as peculiar as tasteful : all the pillars are 
decorated with arabesque sculpture, representing scroll-work 
and hovering angels. The walls themselves have a richly 
gilded foliage, and al fresco paintings by the Calabrian Mat- 
teo ; a very magnificent high altar is there, and rich monu- 
ments over the grand masters. The highly polished floor is 
inlaid with the arms of knights. The organ pealed, the cen- 
ser was swung, and the kneeling Maltese dames cast a look 
from the heavenly to the earthly travellers. They perhaps 
had a foreboding that one would celebrate them in song. 

The Governor's palace, once the Grand Master's, lies not 
far from hence. It is a building which is just as dingy with- 
out as it is diversified and splendid within. One can, from 
the paintings here, learn and comprehend the historical 
exploits of the Maltese knights at Rhodes, though we may 
find splendid paintings, and rich carpets, and hangings in 
most of the palaces of Europe ; yet what we cannot find in 
them, but only in the Governor's palace at Malta, is the arse- 
nal. All the pillars here are slender, high, and quite hidden 
by lances, axes, and swords, grouped in the most picturesque 
manner, as if they formed a part of the pillar itself, — as if they 
were artificially cut out, the one quite different from the other, 
— but all in the same proportion, which produces a harmony 
in that endless range of pillars. The armor which the knights 
of Malta wore stands in ranks along the wall, and the walls 
themselves are covered with their portraits, shields, and arms. 
Above the rest is seen the Grand Master's portrait, painted by 
Caravaggio j a radiant sun beams above it, and round about 
are rosettes of pistols, arabesques of muskets, sabres, and 
arrows. The red flowers at the feast of Rosalie could not 
be more boldly woven into festoons than these arms are. 

Ascending most convenient and easy stairs, which a half- 



MALTA. I45 

year's old child might crawl up, we come out on to the flat roof 
of the building, from whence we have a prospect of the city, 
the island, and the wide sea. It lay quite calm, of a shining 
blue, and in the distance shone snow-covered Etna, like a pyra- 
mid of Carrara marble. The burning heat of the sun was 
softened by the fresh sea-breeze. I turned toward the coast of 
Africa ; Malta now became like another north to me ; I felt 1 
desire like the bird of passage in harvest. My thoughts flev 
to the land of lions ; they followed the caravan over th 
sandy deserts ; they flew to the woods of the blacks ; the 
rested on the gold-producing streams, and dreamt wit 
Egypt's kings in the cloud -wreathed pyramids. Shall I ev< 
go there ? 

What a wide curcuit ! The whole of Malta appears like 
a wall in the sea ; scarcely anything green meets the eye, 
which, for the most part, meets the yellow earth that is cut 
through both right and left with walled inclosures and build- 
ing on building. We see in a moment that this spot is the 
most densely populated on the whole earth. 

We rolled out of the gate in one of the light, elegant, 
two-wheeled carriages, with one horse, and the driver running 
by the side. Our destined excursion was to Citta Vecchia. 

Everything outside the fortifications presented the picture 
of an African land. We did not see a tree, nothing green, 
except the low, sprouting corn and the abundant, large Indian 
figs, which appeared as though they streamed forth from the 
earth and the old walls. It was in the heat of a burning sun. 
The way lay along the aqueduct made by the knights of 
Malta ; it is so low that in many places we could easily spring 
over it, and it appeared like the work of a child in comparison 
with the aqueduct near Rome. The roads are excellent. We 
passed some wind-mills, the peculiar airy building of which 
attracted my attention. The slightest wind must be able to 
set them in motion ; they have from twelve to twenty wings, 
so that they form a whole rosette. The buildings themselves 
are entirely of stone, neat and tasteful ; a spiral stone stair- 
case leads up to the machinery. All the wind-mills I after- 
ward saw on the Greek islands and the Dardanelles had quite 



I46 A POETS BAZAAR. 

the same form ; but Malta presented the first of the kind to 
my observation. 

Outside Citta Vecchia we saw over the whole island ; it 
lay under shadow, with a yellow, shining surface like the sun 
itself; low walls running crosswise formed inclosures that 
extended entirely over the land, giving it the appearance of a 
map on which the minutest boundary is indicated. 

Citta Vecchia, the bishop's see, and once the capital of the 
island, is not an inconsiderable town. The church, which is 
dedicated to St. Peter and St. Paul, is quite in the same style 
as the Italian churches, airy and diversified with colors : but 
the traveller who comes from Italy is so surfeited with seeing 
churches, that even a church like this produces no effect. We 
also saw the catacombs here, which are just like those under 
Rome ; they are narrow, inconvenient passages, of which, 
having seen ten yards, one has a perfect conception of the 
appearance of the next ten. In the vault under St. Paul's 
Church is a cavern of small extent ; in the centre stands a 
marble statue of the Apostle, who is said to have lived here 
after he was stranded in a storm on the coast of Malta. But 
neither the cavern, catacombs, nor church made any sort of 
impression on me. I was glutted with the sight of such things. 
It was with me as it is with many travellers :' if we are in a 
place where there is one thing or another to be seen, then we 
make it a duty to see it, because it is mentioned in books, and 
because it is spoken of; but it very often happens that the 
thing after all is not worth the trouble we take to see it. 
What interested me in this city was the manners of the people ; 
the half-veiled peasant girls, whose eyes gleamed like lightning 
behind the veil ; the crowd of ragged beggars, and the many 
foreign sailors who had hired horses and were galloping about 
in their glazed hats, on which the ship's name was placed in 
gilt letters, shining in the sun. We did not hear a single 
Italian word; the lower classes could not understand us. at 
all ; they spoke a sort of Arabic. 

On the way home, we passed a splendid villa, whose shady 
garden displayed itself like an odorous bouquet in the midst 
of this burning desert ; tall pepper-trees and palms, with fan- 
shaped leaves, rose high above the wall. A number of armed 



MALTA. I47 

Turks walked about on the flat, oriental roof. We were told 
that the Prince Emir Beschir, who had fled hither, lived here, 
and therefore no one was permitted to see the garden. Numer- 
ous black slaves sauntered about in the yard, and a fine giraffe 
stood by the wall and ate the green leaves. The whole was 
such an Asiatic picture, that, even without help of the flaming 
sun, it could not but burn itself into the memory. 

Not far from the quarantine house, which looks large and 
imposing, is the English cemetery. It is almost filled with 
monuments, all cut out of Malta stone ; not one, however, was 
of any striking beauty. None of the inscriptions impressed 
me by their peculiarity ; no great or well known name did I 
find here ; but there were beautiful flowers, large and scented ; 
and it was warmer here than in the North on the finest sum- 
mer day, notwithstanding it was on the seventeenth of March. 

Toward evening we returned to our steam-vessel. The 
view over the harbor, with the life there, was a scene I shall 
never forget. 

When the sun went down, the evening gun was heard, and all 
the flags on our vessel were lowered ; it was but a few minutes, 
and night lay over us without twilight ; but night as it comes 
on in the South, clear and transparent with glittering stars, — 
stars which say, " We are suns ; can you doubt it ? " 

The crowd in the streets disappeared ; a soft music was 
heard, but it soon broke forth in powerful tones from the two 
war-ships that lay nearest to us. " God save the Queen " 
was played and sung, as I have never before heard it ; but the 
situation in which we were contributed much to the effect. 

Lively music now sounded. There was a ball on board one 
of the ships. The stars themselves seemed to dance on the 
water's surface. The boats rocked ; it was late in the evening 
before I could tear myself away from this scene. 

I was awakened early in the morning by the cleansing of the 
deck, after they had taken coal on board. When I came upon 
deck, it shone in all its freshness, and they made ready for 
sailing. 

There was a shouting and screaming round about us ; the 
floating shops with their traders surrounded us. Naked boys 
begged ; passengers came on board ; our Persian sat on the 



I48 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

coal sacks near the chimney ; a Bedouin wrapped up in his 
white burnoose, and with pistols and knife in his belt, lay with 
his back against him ; a few Maltese women, in their black 
veils, had grouped themselves near the machinery, and Greeks 
in different dresses and with the red fez on their heads, 
leaned against the gunwale. 

Two sailors with halberds stood guard by the steps into the 
gangway, and kept order whilst packages, chests, and boxes 
were piled up. The boatswain's whistle sounded ; the steam 
whizzed and hissed out of the tube and about the paddle 
wheels ; the cannon sounded, the flags waved, and we glided 
out of Malta's road at a rapid rate, into the open Mediter- 
ranean, which lay as blue and still as a velvet carpet spread 
over the earth ; the sea was like bluish ether — a fixed starless 
sky beneath us ; it extended in the transparent air, further 
than I have ever seen it ; neither dark nor light stripe bounded 
the horizon ; there was a clearness, an infinity which cannot 
be painted, nor described, except in the eternal depth of 
thought. 



GREECE. 
I. 

A FEW DAYS IN THE MEDITERRANEAN. 

THE boundless sea lay in a dead calm ; we felt not the 
least motion in the vessel ; we could run about where 
we liked, up and down, just as if we were on terra firma ; it 
was only by looking at the water in the wake of the vessel 
that we saw the speed of the ship which left Malta's yellow 
rocks further and further behind. 

We had seven young Spanish monks on board. They knew 
a little Italian, were all missionaries, and were now going 
to India. The youngest of them was very handsome, but 
pale and melancholy. He told me that his parents still lived, 
and that he had not seen his mother, who was so dear to him, 
since his sixteenth year. He sighed and exclaimed : " Now 
I shall not see her before we meet in heaven ! " 

It was with a heavy, bleeding heart that he left Europe ; 
but he acknowledged that he must do so ; it was his calling, 
and he was in God's service. He and the other brothers be- 
longed to the order of the Theresian monks, founded by St. 
Theresa. 

Of those on board, I, for the most part, was the one who 
seemed to be furthest from home — I came from the North. 

" From Denmark ! " repeated our Roman ecclesiastic, who 
was going to Jerusalem. " Denmark! You are then an 
American ? " 

I explained to him that Denmark lay very far from Amer- 
ica ; but he shook his head like the lady in " The Danes in 
Paris," and said like her, " Not so very far ! not so very far ! " 

We had an ambassador from the Pope on board, who was 
going to Lebanon ; he was the only one of the Italians who 
knew a little about Denmark. He knew Fru von Gothen, 



I5O A POET'S BAZAAR. 

and had been at her soirees in Rome ; he knew that there 
was a Thorwaldsen, and that there had been a Tycho Brahe. 
I have since made this discovery, that Tycho Brahe is the one 
amongst the Danes through whom Denmark is most known 
abroad : Tycho is our most famed countryman — and him we 
exiled ! Denmark is great as a mother, but she is often no 
good mother toward her best children. 

Now, in the middle of the day, we could still see Malta ; 
but of Sicily we only saw snow-clad Etna ; yet large and dis- 
tinct, it shone as if it were a pyramid of white sunlit marble. 
There was not the least swell in the sea ; it was like gliding 
through the air. An enormous dolphin, larger than any horse, 
rolled several times quite close to the ship ; the sun shone on 
its wet, glistening back. Melodies from " La Dame Blanche " 
sounded from the piano in the cabin to us on deck, and the 
merry sailor boys hung in the shrouds and sang : " Quel plai- 
sir d'etre matelot ! " 

The whistle sounded ; the sailors went through their ma- 
neuvers. The dinner-bell rang. While we were drinking our 
coffee, the sun went down large and red, and the sea shone 
like fire. 

The sun was set ; the stars broke forth with a brilliancy 
such as I cannot express ! What a firmament ! what radiance ! 
Venus shone as if she were the moon herself ; her rays cast a 
long stripe over the sea, which moved in a gentle swell, as if 
the sea breathed softly. Low in the horizon, over the coast 
of Africa, stood a star shining red like fire ! Under this star 
the Bedouin was at this moment speeding on his wild horse ; 
under this star the caravan was passing through the glowing 
sand. 

" How delightful to sit under the tent with Africa's daugh- 
ter ! " The stars shot flames through the blood ! I sat by the 
gunwale, and looked over the sea's surface ! Phosphoric 
gleams shot through the water! It was as if beings walked 
with torches at the bottom of the ocean, and these suddenly 
shone through the water ; they appeared and vanished, as if 
these flames were the variably visible respiration of the ocean. 

I was in my hammock by nine o'clock, and at once fell 
asleep, whilst the ship continued its unchanging course onward. 



A FEW DAYS IN THE MEDITERRANEAN. 151 

When I again stood upon deck early in the morning, they were 
cleaning it j all hands were in motion, and the deck soon shone 
white and clean, so that it was a pleasure to look at it. Where 
the anchors and cables lay, the sailors had their washing-place, 
and it was quite original. They washed their trousers there, 
and spread them out on deck ; then poured sea-water over 
them, and swept or rather scrubbed them with a common 
birch-broom which was somewhat worn, and with a piece of 
soap between the sticks. 

Two brisk young cabin-boys, quite little fellows, but as 
lively as squirrels, and full of mischief, killed poultry, and 
before each slaughter they made a humorous speech to the 
hens, which always ended with a " Voila ! " and then the 
knife was drawn across their throat. 

We perceived some movement in the sea : but as the sun 
rose higher, it became calm as the day before ; no river-sailing 
could be likened to this in stillness ; here and there, but at a 
distance, some dark-blue spots on the extended sunlit surface 
of the sea showed that a breeze curled the watery mirror. 
Malta was no longer visible ; but Etna stood clear and distinct 
in the horizon. Toward the northeast we discerned the 
white sails of a ship ; it was the first vessel we had seen since 
we left Malta. 

The sailors had their breakfast in the stern of the vessel, 
and each got his ration of wine, bread, and onions. They were 
all as merry as could be ; they had their man of wit, and one 
on whom they played their jests. 

The Persian in the green caftan, and with a white shawl 
turban, sat ever alone and played with his ear-rings, or his 
sabre. No one spoke to him, and he spoke to no one : but 
now and then a smile played around his mouth, as if pleasant 
remembrances passed through his mind ; or perhaps he 
thought of his arrival at home, and of all he had to tell of 
land and sea. I passed him, and he seized my arm, said some 
words in Persian, which I did not understand ; but he laughed, 
nodded, and pointed to the side of the deck. He returned my 
friendly morning greeting, by drawing my attention to a little 
incident on our passage over the sea. A little bird had 
alighted on the shrouds, quite tired, and had languidly rlut- 



152 



A POETS BAZAAR. 



tered down to the deck. It was so exhausted that it could no 
longer lift its wings. It had soon a number of spectators ; 
and I was quite angry with the priest from Rome, because he 
would have it roasted directly, for, he said, " it must taste 
so good." 

" Our little winged pilgrim shall not be eaten ! " said I. 
One of the lieutenants took it under his protection, put it up 
on the sail that was spread like a tent over the quarter-deck, 
gave it a plate with bread crumbs and water, and the bird was 
our guest for the whole day and night too. Next day it flew 
away from the ship, and twittered in its flight, as if it would 
say, " Thank you for good treatment." 

It was a great event for us all, yet we soon sought our sev- 
eral occupations again : one at the piano, another over a book ; 
some played cards, and others promenaded up and down. 
The Bedouin sat on the coal sacks, silent as a ghost ; the eyes 
sparkled in that brown face, under the white burnoose, and his 
naked, dark-brown legs stuck out ; the Persian played with his 
large sabre, clapped his pistols, or turned the silver rings in 
his dark-brown ears ; the Captain copied a picture by Marstand 
out of my album : " Only a Fiddler." It now hangs in the Cap- 
tain's cabin, and " the fiddler " sails yearly between Marseilles 
and Constantinople, in the proud ship Leonidas. I myself 
read German with one of the French officers ; he translated 
Schiller's " Die Theilung der Erde." 

The time went on delightfully ; joy and mirth reigned at the 
dinner-table. The sunsets were extremely beautiful. The 
stars streamed forth so clear and bright ! It was not possi- 
ble to perceive the course of the ship but by fixing the eye on 
the shrouds and the stars ; it was as if the starry heavens turned 
round, and the ship stood still. 

There was something so elevated, so poetic on these even- 
ings on the quiet, boundless sea, that I want expression for it. 
This quiet around reflected itself in my soul. My northern 
home has granted me but a few minutes in my life so delight- 
ful as I enjoyed here for whole hours. 

We still discerned Etna, like a white pyramid, in the north- 
west ; all else around was the unlimited sea ; but at midnight 
a white spot showed itself in the northeast ; it could not be a 
ship, it was too broad for that, but possibly a cloud. I thought 



A FEW DAYS IN THE MEDITERRANEAN. I 53 

it was the Greek coast, and asked the Captain about it. He 
shook his head and said that we should first see Greece the next 
day, but that it certainly lay in the direction where I thought I 
had seen land. Neither he nor any of the passengers could 
see anything. 

After dinner, shortly before sunset, when I sought for the 
same point as before, it shone just as clear as Etna now ! No, 
it could not be a cloud, it had not changed its form, it yet lay 
in the same direction as it did three hours ago. 

The Captain took his best telescope and cried, " Land ! " 
It was the coast of Greece ! it was a mountain's top near Nav- 
arino, covered with snow, and it shone in the clear air. I had 
discovered Greece the first of them all. 

" I have never before heard," said the Captain, " that any 
one could see both Etna and the coast of Greece at the same 
time, with the naked eye ! It is remarkable ! " 

When I afterward related this at Athens, a learned man. 
there said that, in a critique upon an English work, which he 
had lately read, the same remark was made, but the critic very 
strongly doubted it. 

Yet it is the case : I have seen it myself. Snow on Etna 
and snow on the Greek mountains make it possible, in clear 
sunshine, to see land both in the east and west. 

Greece ! I saw then before me this great father-land of 
spirits ! Under yonder mountain lay the beautiful Arcadian 
vales ! A thousand thoughts, one different from the other, flew 
toward that shining mountain, like a flock of migratory birds !: 
but the sun sank, and my thoughts retired from the reminis- 
cences of earth to the majesty of heaven. 

Next morning I was up before the sun ; it was on the 
twentieth of March. The sun rose so blood-red, and so singu- 
larly oval as I have never before seen it ; the day streamed! 
forth over the calm, silent sea, and before us, to the right, lay,, 
clear and distinct, but far, far distant, the coast of Morea. It 
was ancient Lacedemon we saw. 

A steep rock descended perpendicularly into the sea, and 
on land rose snow-covered, picturesque mountains ! O, how 
my heart exulted ! 

I see shining air ! I see waves like fleece ! 

And the mountain coast yonder 's the land of Greece. 



154 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

II. 

PANORAMA OF SOUTH MOREA AND THE CYCLADES. 

We approached Morea: the mulberry land, as its name 
imports, and which it has received from its appearance, which 
is like that of a mulberry leaf. There streams forth Eurotas, 
there lies ancient Sparta, and there is Agamemnon's grave ! 
These rocky contours, with the same sunlight and long shad- 
ows as we now see them, were seen by the Phoenicians and 
Pelasgians ; the billows rolled here at that time, the same as 
now. The whole scene is unchanged. We sailed close in, 
under Cape Matapan's rocky wall ; the whole coast seemed 
naked, and without vegetation ; heavy billows broke against 
the rocks, where there was no mountain goat climbing, no 
shepherd or hunter to be seen. Yet even in this naked wil- 
derness, each spot had an interest far greater than that we 
often feel for the richest landscape, for it was Greece we saw. 
The warm violet that we preserve in our psalm book, is of 
greater worth to us than the fresh, scented rose ; remem- 
brance gives colors and odor, such as we do not find in the 
living flower. 

We passed the extreme point of the Mainot's land — the 
Mainots, 1 that Spartan race, which as yet has never been 
subdued, a people, brave and courageous, rude and wild, but 
hospitable as in the times of Lycurgus. 

After some hours' sailing, there lay on our right side the 
island of Cerigo. 

" Cythera ! " cried our lively Frenchman ; " it was from 
these cliffs that Venus flew in her car, drawn by doves ! I have 
a suspicion that some of her race are here still ! Here are 
the genuine Grecian marble, the real Grecian roses — and 
both pass into flesh and blood ! Let us cast anchor, and pay 
homage to the goddess, who has yet an altar in every one's 
breast ! " 

Our steamer flew past. The sea was rough, and it blew 
from the mountain. Morea stretched its naked Cape Malio 

1 The name Mainot is derived from the Greek word Mavia, rage, and 
signifies the wildness with which they attack their enemies. 



PANORAMA OF SOUTH MORE A. 155 

out into the foaming breakers. How wild and solitary was 
this scene ! and yet here was a human dwelling, a hermit's 
cave, quite shut out from the world, surrounded by screaming 
sea-fowl, and close by the roaring sea. It was impossible, even 
with the assistance of a glass, to discover a pathway among 
the rocks that could conduct persons down to the hermit. 

The dwelling was low and small ; it had a hole for a door 
and window ; close by it was seen a man moving about ; it 
was the hermit on Cape Malio, the first human being we saw 
on the coast of Greece ! Who was he ? What had driven 
him out into this wild solitude ? No one answered our ques- 
tion. He and his cabin had been seen there for many years. 
Ships with their little world of beings glide past ; he looks on 
them as on visions ; he regards them as he regards the 
white sea-gulls. He reads his morning and evening prayer, 
when the sea is calm, and when it sings its mighty chorus in 
the storm. 

We receded farther and farther from him. Toward north- 
west the Belle Poule, a gigantic helmet-shaped rock, lifts its 
head from the foaming waves : the evening sun colored it 
with its red rays. I regarded it as the advanced guard of the 
Cyclades ; but it was not before it was late in the evening 
that we approached them. 

By the dawn of day I was on deck again. Some sailing 
vessels cruised close past us, looking like gigantic sea-birds 
that would strike our shrouds with their white wings. 

Naked stone masses towered aloft from the water : it was 
the island of Melos which is excavated by fire and water : it 
was Sipphanto, Serpho and Thermia : we sailed as in a canal 
between the last two. Under the stones are magnet mines, 
and above them scented roses ; but the traveller sees none of 
these : the coast is bare and wild. 

The sun rose behind the island of Mycone's mountains ; 
it shone on Paros and Anti-Paros ; but no marble rock shone 
there. The gray cliff lay dead and heavy in the water ; there 
was nothing to give us sign of its grand stalactite grotto with 
its marvels. We saw the rocks of Naxos where Ariadne wept ; 
where the Menades, with loose, hanging hair over their beauti- 
ful shoulders, danced in the clear starlit night, and sang their 



I56 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

hymns to Bacchus ; but high rocks concealed the fruitful vine- 
covered dales from our sight ; Dia, Zeus's holy mountain, 
pointed sternly toward that heaven from whence mankind has 
chased the old gods. 

In our school-days we called the classics "dry;" the 
classic islands appear still more dry! yet it is with the most 
of them as it is with those authors : we have only to penetrate 
them, and then we see the vine-rows sling their juicy branches 
over the sunlit vale ; we then see the monuments of olden 
time like great imaginings in a poet's work ; beautiful women 
greet us, — and the greeting of beauty is like the melodies of 
our dearest songs. 

The vessel steered toward a very small island, where there 
stood a slender, white light-house ; and as we passed it, the 
barbor of Syra lay before us. Bent like a horse-shoe around 
the bay, there lay a town with shining white houses, as if it 
were a camp of tents on the gray mountain side.* It was a 
little life-like Naples ■ the bishop's palace here, on the top of 
the mountain, reminded us of St. Elmo. I had pictured to 
myself the Greek towns as but ruins and clay huts \ but the 
town of Syra was quite inviting and picturesque. 

A whole flock of Greek boats rowed out to us, and lay in 
shelter under the side of our vessel, although they every mo- 
ment struck against each other, as the sea ran strong. I let 
my luggage glide down into one of the nearest, and then 
sprang into it myself- a farewell sounded to me from the 
friends I had made on board the steamer, and whom I should 
probably never see again in this world — and I became sor- 
rowful. 

The rowers set the oars in motion toward land, but we were 
far out. The waves rocked our boat as if it had been an 
orange peel ; it had almost upset in the heavy swell ; the waves 
dashed over us ; at length we came into the harbor where ship 
lay beside ship, and one boat close by the other. 

The whole quay was filled with Greeks, in tight jackets, 
white trousers, and the red cap on their heads ; there was such 
a shouting and screaming ! An old fellow stretched his hand 
out to me — and I stood on Greek land. Gratitude toward 
God, joy at being here, and yet a certain feeling of desolation, 
took possession of me at this moment. 



PANORAMA OF SOUTH MO RE A. 



157 



At the office of the French steamer I learned that it would 
be seven days before the Austrian steam-packet would arrive ; 
the Greek line was broken up, but there was one conveyance 
for me the same day if I could be contented to commence my 
arrival at Piraeus with a few days' quarantine. The French 
war-steamer Lycurgus, which had come from Alexandria, where 
the plague just then raged, had lain for several weeks at Syra 
with the quarantine flag on board ; it was to sail that even- 
ing for Piraeus and end its quarantine there in three days. 
I took a boat immediately, and set out on the troubled 
sea toward the Lycurgus, where the green flag waved. My 
luggage was thrown into an empty boat which hung by a rope 
near the gangway ; the sailors hauled it up ; my things were 
on board, and I could now begin my wanderings about the 
town. 

Close to the quay lay an open wooden shop with a clay floor* 
and rough beams supporting a ceiling, which, however, only 
extended over half the room ; the other half had only the roof 
for covering. This was a cafe, in which Greeks and strangers 
sat round about little wooden tables. The coffee-pot stood 
over the fire ; a fine Greek boy stirred it with a stick ; he 
turned it with both hands, so that the coffee might be of an 
equal thickness, and poured it out boiling into the cups. 1 
Two Russian sailors danced to a horrible violin, played by an 
old Greek. 

I went further into the town ; the streets were extremely 
small, and in the principal one which winds round the bay, was 
shop after shop, each like an inverted chest. Here they sold 
clothes, fez, morocco shoes, fruits, and edibles of all kinds. 

Before the hotel " della Grecia " sat Greeks and others in 
oriental costume, smoking long pipes in the parti-colored 
wooden balconies. I only met one Frank, and he was a 
Russian, who at once asked me what I was doing in that 
cursed land amongst these men. 

1 The coffee in Greece and the East is excellent, nay, so superb that 
the traveller who comes from that land, will not soon accommodate his 
taste to that which is prepared in the usual European method. They 
drink the sediment with it, but the coffee is quite smooth, and there are no 
coffee-grounds ; it is ground to a powder, quite like chocolate. 



I58 A POETS BAZAAR. 

" They are all scoundrels," said he • " as well as those writ- 
ers and Lamartines who describe these countries so that one 
feels a desire to visit them. I wish I had one of the fellows 
here ; I would break his bones ! I come from Constantino- 
ple ; I have made the tour by land along the coast, and have 
been plundered by the Albanians ; they have taken every 
farthing from me ; they have killed my servants, and I lie here 
money-bound, waiting for a letter of credit ! It is a vile, ab- 
ject land, and bad people! What the deuce did you come 
here into the East for ? " 

This was very pleasant ! However, I hied me away to the 
nearest barber, and sat up on the wooden bench against the 
wall, among jhe other Greeks. A leather strap which was 
made fast to the wall was fastened round my neck ; the sharp 
razor flew as light as a feather over the whole face, which was 
afterwards sprinkled with eau de Cologne. 

The s «« *)er asked me if I was an Englishman ; and when 
I sai r "> ! . us Danish, he pressed me to his heart and shouted : 
" Braji Americani /" I assured him that I was not an Amer- 
ican, but a Dane ; he nodded quite pleased, laid his hand on 
his heart, and said, as far as I could make out, how dear the 
Americans were to all Greeks, from the time of their struggle 
for liberty, when the American ships brought them provisions. 

I strolled through the streets, which were thronged with 
men, but not a single Greek woman did I see. The windows 
in all the houses were covered with long curtains, or Venetian 
blinds inside. I soon reached the more empty streets, which 
lay higher up on the side of the mountain. Before most of 
the houses here was a sort of entrance-hall with a large arbor 
of a single vine. Flower-pots stood on the walls, and on the 
flat roofs of the houses ; the street before some of the build- 
ings was paved in mosaic ; the stones formed stars and scroll 
work. I went into the principal church, which, in comparison 
with those I had seen in Italy, was small and insignificant, 
but, compared with the churches in Greece, was of a respecta- 
ble size. 

The walls around the altar-stone were bright with gilding 
and holy pictures. A few little boys were playing there. My 
mind and thoughts were disposed to devotion. God was the 



PANORAMA OF SOUTH MORE A. 1 59 

only One I knew here. I could have bent my knee, and sub- 
mitted myself to his holy will, and in my thoughts I did so. 

In the highest part of the town, the buildings were not 
completed. The street appeared to go through a stone quarry : 
there lay blocks and fragments of rocks, where the houses 
were being built ; but the view over the town and harbor to 
the little island with its white and slender light-house was 
splendid. On the opposite side of the bay lay the quarantine 
station. I saw the islands of Tenos, Delos, Naxos, and the top 
of Andros. As I fixed my eye on these islands, a steam-ves- 
sel passed by. I knew the flag ! it was the Leonidas ; it dis- 
appeared under the coast of Delos. " Farewell ! farewell ! " 
shouted I ; but no one heard me ; the ship w; jne — I saw 
but the smoke, which still lay like a cloud between the islands. 

Toward evening I went on board the Lycurgus. The sea 
was running high ; two merry Greeks rowed, and at every 
stroke of the oar the waves lifted the boat so that we were 
nearly upset, yet they shouted joyfully. Strange faces met 
me on board. We weighed anchor at sunset, and the vessel 
steered northeast of Syra, where we came into low water. 
It was a beautiful starlight night. I had not, as yet, made ac- 
quaintance with any one. I sat on the gun-carriage, and 
looked at the sky above and around ; a foreigner in oriental 
costume sat with his back toward me. I looked at him and 
he looked again at me, nodded in a friendly manner, and 
put his hand up to his turban. It was the Persian with whom 
I had sailed from Naples ! We two were the only old compan- 
ions from the Leonidas ; he appeared to be glad at our meet- 
ing, as I also was. He was going to Athens, and from thence 
home. He offered me some fruit, and I offered him some 
again ; but neither of us could understand each other by 
words. I pointed toward the beautiful starry firmament, and 
he touched his turban. I thought that I must say some- 
thing, if only a quotation from a language that was similar to 
his own j and what more of this did I know than the first 
line of Genesis in Hebrew: one helps one's self as well as 
one can. I pointed to the stars and said, — 

" Bereschit Barah Elohim Et Haschamaim Veet Ha-aretz ! " 

And he smiled, nodded, and in return gave me all he knew 
of a language that he thought was mine : — 



l6o A POET'S BAZAAR. 

" Yes, sir ! verily ! verily ! " 

This was the whole of our conversation. Neither of us 
knew more ; but we were good friends. 



III. 

THE BAY OF PIRAEUS. 

Early in the morning I heard the men casting anchor. I 
went upon deck ; we lay in the Bay of Piraeus. It looked like 
a small lake. The island of JEgina, over whose mountains 
the still higher mountains of Morea rose boldly one above the 
other, looked somewhat insignificant. Two floating casks 
are used for landmarks, and in the evening each bears a lantern. 
I counted about one hundred houses in Piraeus : behind these, 
and behind a stony yellow soil and gray-green olive-trees, 
rose Lycabettus and the Acropolis, which is in a lower situa- 
tion ; the mountains Hymettus and Pentelicon closed the land- 
scape, which has a hard, stony appearance, — " that stony At- 
tica," said the old writers. . 

To the left lay a little peninsula, with some bushes, a wind- 
mill, and the new quarantine building ; to the right extended a 
bare, stony plain to the heights of Parnassus, whose partly 
undulating, and partly broken lines had a very picturesque 
effect. 

In this bay, where Themistocles had sixty galleys launched 
annually, there now lay but a few small Greek vessels and a 
boat ; but there was a number of large English, French, and 
Austrian vessels, as well as two steam-vessels, besides ours. 
Smart Greeks rowed past us ; and during the day came a boat 
with Danes, who wished me welcome ! There was much to 
hear, and much to answer ! Danish tongues expressed their 
love for Denmark, and enthusiasm for Greece ; but we could 
only speak at a distance, for our ship lay under quarantine, 
and could not be released before the third day. 

The day went swiftly on, and in the evening a scene began 
which I cannot describe. The mountains Hymettus and Pen- 
telicon, which by daylight had a grayish appearance, became 



ARRIVAL AT A THENS. I 6 1 

red at sunset, as if they were formed of all the roses in Greece. 
The whole valley had a pale red tinge, yet not as if we saw 
the valley through a rose-colored veil ; no, it was no airy mist ; 
every object was so clear, so strangely nigh, and yet the eye 
felt that it was miles distant. ^Egina and the mountains on 
Morea had more of a lilac color.; the one range of mountains 
which rose behind the other gradually changed its tone from 
the pale red to the dark blue. The sun went down, the even- 
ing gun sounded, and the flags were lowered. What soli- 
tude ! not a tree, not a bush to be seen ! what stillness 
amongst these mountains, what quiet over this extended plain, 
and what transparency in this atmosphere ! Jupiter already 
glitters high above ; the Great Bear appeared still further off, 
but, as I continued to gaze, it approached nearer with the 
night ; the stars swarmed forth more and more as if that vast 
space would be filled with globes, as if that blue ground must 
be shut out by one radiant light. The stars shone through the 
air, they shone in the water with the blue tinge of diamonds. 
The sailors' song sounded from Piraeus ; a fire was lighted on 
the beach ; people came with lights in their hands out of 
doors : sometimes we heard the splashing of an oar in the 
water as a boat passed, or else all was still ; even the sea-gulls 
which had screamed around us had gone to roost. 

What a holy temple with monuments, graves, and great 
reminiscences ! The evening's silence was the most touching 
mass for the dead. 



IV. 

ARRIVAL AT ATHENS. 

It was our third morning at Piraeus, and our hour of free- 
dom struck. I believe there lay above a dozen Greek boats 
about our vessel. I sprang into the first at hand, and we 
rowed briskly toward land, where there were a number of 
cabriolets, old chariots, and open carriages ; they all appeared 
to have served their time, perhaps in Italy ; and now in their 
old age had wandered into Greece to serve anew. 

Only a few years since a morass extended between Piraeus 



1 62 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

and Athens, around which camels journeyed, laden with goods ; 
now there is an excellent high-road, and a very good khan or 
inn ; we travel this road, which is about four or five English 
miles in length, for a mere nothing. All our luggage was 
crammed into an old carriage, which was quite filled with 
portmanteaus and travelling bags that peeped out of the win- 
dows ; the travellers themselves were in three large carriages. 
Behind the one in which I sat there was a fine, smartly dressed 
Greek, who was a messenger from the " Hotel de Munich " in 
Athens. He was so richly clothed, that if he had been at a 
masquerade in the North he might well have passed for an 
oriental prince. 

We rolled rejoicing out of Piraeus. Sailors, in their glazed 
hats, sat outside coffee-houses, which really appeared to me 
like large rooms of planks. They gave us a " hurra" empty- 
ing their wine-glasses. The way passed over the remains of 
the antique walls, which once consisted of a species of yel- 
low travertine, and which still form the basis of the rocks here. 
We went at a gallop ; there was a terrible dust, but then it 
was classic dust. 

We soon reached the olive grove — Minerva's sacred olive 
grove ! A wooden shop was erected on each side of the road. 
Citrons and oranges were exhibited, whose temptation was 
heightened by a row of bottles in which were wine and liquors. 
Whilst our horses baited, there came beggars with large pew- 
ter cups ; we gave something to all, for they were Greeks. 

We pass at this day, as in the best days of Athens, from Pi- 
raeus through the large olive grove. Before us lay the Acropolis, 
which I had so often seen in pictures ; but now it was before 
me in reality ! The steep Lycabettus, with its shining white 
hermitage, stood distinctly forth, and I saw Athens ! A few 
paces from the city, close by the road to the right, stands the 
Temple of Theseus, so large and perfect, with its fine marble 
columns which have become a yellow-brown by time. 

I could not rightly bring myself to think that I was in 
Greece, and that I was entering Minerva's city. Hermes 
Street, the largest in Athens, is also the first which is entered 
by the traveller coming from Piraeus ; but it commences with a 
row of houses which a European must pronounce most miser- 



ARRIVAL AT A THENS. 1 6 3 

able and poor. By degrees, however, better and larger ones 
with two stories, as in the town on Syra, present themselves ; 
nevertheless, there was something, within me at least, that whis- 
pered, " Here is the capital of Greece ! " 

The Acropolis stood like a gigantic throne high above all 
the small houses, and in the middle of the street through 
which we drove stood a palm-tree, higher than I had ever be- 
fore seen one ; a small barricade of rough planks surrounded 
the stem, otherwise it would soon be destroyed by the Greeks, 
who stand up in the old vehicles and drive past as if they 
were running a race. Of all things around us this palm-tree 
drew our attention most. I afterward learned that when the 
street was paved, the palm-tree was to have been cut down be- 
cause it stood in the middle of the road, but our countryman, 
Professor Ross from Holstein, begged that it might be spared ; 
and it was permitted to stand. I therefore christen it " Ross's 
palm " — and from this time all travellers and writers of trav- 
els will be pleased to call it by its proper name ! We further 
charge all Greeks to remember that their land forms the 
bridge from Europe to the East : and accordingly that they 
ought to cherish all oriental ornaments that intimate this fact ; 
and this palm-tree is a brilliant ornament, for we find but two 
or three remaining in Athens. 

We stopped at the " Hotel de Munich " ; the landlord is a 
Greek, the landlady German ; " die schone Wienerinn," she is 
called. They gave me the best room, and it was just such a 
one as we find in every little German town in a third-rate inn. 
I had now a home — a home in Athens. 

I will endeavor to convey the first impression the city made 
on me, and relate how I passed the first day there. 

The terrible description they had given me in Naples, of 
Greece, and particularly of Athens, I found was absurdly ex- 
travagant, for although I really believe that six or seven years 
ago everything here was in the most wretched state, yet we 
must remember what one year alone is able to effect for a land 
like Greece, which is in a state of development more rapid than 
that of any other land in Europe. It is as if we should com- 
pare the perceptible advance, in an intellectual sense, of the 
child, with the less striking progress in the grown man ; seven 



164 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

months are to the child what seven years are to the man. 
Athens appeared to me as large as a Danish provincial town, •*■ 
for instance, Elsinore, — and looked like a town that had been 
built up in the greatest haste for a market, which was now in full 
activity. What are called bazaars here, are common crooked 
streets, with wooden houses on both sides ; wooden houses 
such as we see at a Danish fair, and dressed out with scarfs, 
variegated stockings, whole suits of clothes, and morocco 
shoes ; a little clumsy but motley to look upon ! Here is 
meat of all kinds ; here is fruit ; here hang fez or caps ; here 
they sell old and new books. The cab-driver buys himself 
one, and what is it ? Homer's " Iliad," printed in Athens in 
1839. I read the title myself. 

Athens has a few Greek, or rather Turkish coffee-houses, 
and a new Italian one, so large and handsomely furnished, 
that it would look well in Hamburg or Berlin. The much fre- 
quented Cafe Greco in Rome is but a sand-hole under the stairs 
compared to this. I saw in this hotel young Greeks all in the 
national dress, but so tightly laced that they must have been 
blue and green about the ribs, with eye-glass, and glace gloves, 
smoking their cigars, and playing billards. They were real 
Greek dandies ; they only required to change their costume to 
be loungers in any other European city. At the corner of 
the street stood Maltese porters. There was a whole row of 
them in the sun, like the street porters in Copenhagen. 

Athens is a place which seems to grow during the few days 
the stranger stays there. The King's new palace rises between 
the city and Hymettus ; it is a marble building, for which 
every stone is hewed and shaped on the Pentelicon hard by ; 
the entrance hall is already covered with portraits of Greek 
heroes of the period of the war for freedom. The Univer- 
sity was yet building, and a Dane is the architect. 1 A few 
churches and private dwellings for the ministers and merchants 
grow hour by hour ; and who are the many workmen ? They 
are almost all Greeks, as I was told. They are peasants, 
soldiers, and robbers, who have seized the hammer, the saw, 
and the brick. They have looked a little at the foreign work- 
men, and have become bricklayers, smiths, and carpenters at 
once. The Greeks are truly an intelligent, clever people ! 
1 The Danish architect, Christian Hansen. 



ARRIVAL AT A THENS. 1 6 5 

The first impression Athens made on me far surpassed 
what I had been led to expect from the representations they 
had awakened in me at Naples. I said so ; and Ross told 
me about a Greek who had been in Athens a few days before 
— a Greek from Chios, Homer's native isle, who, according to 
his station in life and associates, might be called well-bred ; 
but he had never before seen a large town, and accordingly 
he was quite astonished at the greatness and the luxury he 
found in the capital of Greece. Every moment he expressed 
his astonishment at what he saw ; and when one who had 
seen him there for a fortnight said that now, certainly, he 
must know every part of Athens by heart, he exclaimed : 
" By heart ! one can never know such a town ! Here is 
always someting to see and hear. What a number of places 
of amusement ! How many comforts and conveniences. Here 
are carriages to drive in. Here is delightful music every day 
before the King's palace. Here are coffee-houses with news- 
papers, theatres where they perform plays and operas. It is 
a wonderful city ! " 

The modern greatness and luxury of Athens overwhelmed 
him. I found it very tolerable here, compared to what I had 
anticipated. Thus we judge differently, according as our 
habits and customs have been different. 

I had imagined that I should find myself so strange in 
Greece — so far away from home ; and here, on the con- 
trary, I was quite at home ; Danes and Germans were so 
friendly toward me. I was invited, the first day, to a per- 
fectly Danish house, to the Queen's private chaplain's, the 
Rev. Mr. Luth, from Holstein, who is married to a Danish 
lady from Fredensborg, and whose younger sister was with 
her. Our countrymen assembled here. I met our Danish 
Consul Travers, a Dutchman, who spoke very good Danish. 
The champagne corks flew ! My first night in Athens ended 
with a visit to the theatre. 

The theatre is situated at a short distance from the city. It 
has four tiers of boxes, prettily decorated ; but the prettiest 
sight was the audience in the boxes and pit in their Greek 
costume. There were several handsome Greek women ; but 
I was told that they were all from the islands, for there are 



1 66 A POETS BAZAAR. 

not many in Athens itself. An Italian company performed ; 
the prima donna had just before been condemned by the 
audience. I heard another prima donna, who was a very 
poor singer. The performance itself was quite a medley. 
We heard the overture to " Norma," and " The Bronze 
Horse ; " one act of " The Barber of Seville," and one act of 
" La Gazza Ladra." There was a ballet to conclude with. 

From the pit we retired into a sort of green-room, where 
we got refreshments ; but there was not the least decoration 
in this apartment. We saw above, and on all sides, only the 
roughly joined planks. The long counter was, also, of planed 
boards, at which some few Greeks served coffee, punch, and 
orgeat. 

The theatre, as I have said, is a little way out of the city. 
It had, therefore, a strange effect, to issue out of this build- 
ing in the middle of the night, from a performance of " The 
Barber of Seville," and " La Gazza Ladra," and then find one's 
self under an oriental firmament, where the stars shone so 
brightly that we could make out to see the extent of the vast 
plain encircled by high mountains. It was still and lonely here. 
One could imagine one's self transported by a powerful magi- 
cian to the barren desert. The magnificent decorations of 
nature mocked the painted scenery; the solitude revealed a 
drama that showed how frivolous was everything within the 
place from whence we had come. In the humiliating contrast 
I felt the classic greatness of Greece. 

A single marble column stood on our way amid gravel and 
heath-plants : no one knew what temple it had adorned. The 
people say that it is the pillar to which Christ was bound when 
his executioners scourged him ; and they believe that the 
Turks have thrown it into the sea, but that it returns here 
every night. The white pillar stood in the solitude, and 
pointed in the starlight night toward heaven. 



THE ACROPOLIS. 1 67 



THE ACROPOLIS. 

This isolated rock, with fine marble ruins, is the heart of 
ancient Athens ; its reminiscences extend to a fabulous age. 
When Aaron's almond rod flourished, the laurel-tree of Athens 
shot forth young twigs, and Neptune's salt-spring welled forth 
from the rock. 1 

At the end of the broad street ^Eolus, there is an extensive 
place, necessarily uneven, from its torn down clay huts and 
ruined walls. The Tower of the Winds rises, half dug out 
of the earth and grass, where the dervishes lived in the time 
of the Turks. Two tall cypresses point mournfully toward 
heaven. A Turkish bathing-house, with many cupolas, a soli- 
tary palm, and a splashing fountain, are the most picturesque 
objects around. 

I wandered over the place. By the fountain stood a pretty 
Greek girl, with her pitcher on her shoulder. It was a little 
picture, but a much greater one lay before me. A green hill, 
behind which was a chalk cliff, rose above the irregularly 
built houses, where a flock of sheep grazed in company with 
five or six young camels. The latter stretched out their long 
necks, and proudly extended their nostrils as they threw up 
their heads. The ruins of a devastated fortification extended 
over this plain. The path wound along by it over stones and 
gravel, past deep, uninclosed wells, the one close by the other. 
I followed this path, and the houses and city soon lay be- 
hind me. 

Every spot here is historical : at every step we tread on 
holy ground. That mighty rock to the left, which seems to 
have been torn from the Acropolis by some convulsion of na- 
ture, is the place where the Apostle Paul preached to the 
Athenians. A solitary shepherd now sat there with his two 

1 Fourteen hundred years before the birth of Christ, Cecrops brought a 
colony from Sais to Greece, and erected the Castle of Cecropia on the 
rock. The graves of Cecrops and Erectheus have been discovered. In 
the time of Pericles, the present Parthenon was erected by Phidias, and 
the architects Iktinos and Kallicratides. 



I 68 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

dogs, and looked over the extensive plain where the olive 
groves grow. But I only regarded this picture slightly, and 
let my eye glide over the foundation of the rock with its 
hewn steps, — the place where Solon and Plato have spoken. 
The Acropolis was the chief aim of my walk ; the Acropo- 
lis had all my thoughts ; the extended sea and the pictur- 
esque mountains of Morea alone arrested my attention for a 
few moments. 

I entered the walls of the fortification erected in the Turks' 
time, through an open gate, whose old iron-covered door 
hung on one hinge ; some tombstones of marble with inscrip- 
tions on them served as a cornice to the gate. Just beneath, 
there still lies the so-called Herod's Theatre, with its lofty 
arches of large, square-hewn stones forming a semicircle. 

I had now to pass through a little court-yard, formed of 
the ruined fortifications ; a string hung on the miserable gate ; 
the wooden latch sprang up, and I stood in a somewhat larger 
yard, where they had erected a little guard-house of the bro- 
ken marble pillars, despoiled bass-reliefs, and broken bricks. 
Greek soldiers half-dressed, some with the coarse military 
frock thrown loosely over their shoulders, lay in different 
groups smoking their paper cigars; one played the man 
dolin and sang a Greek song. 

A few paces further, and the road passes between heaped 
up marble blocks and overthrown columns ; the unwinged 
Goddess of Victory's temple, the mighty Propylea, and a ru- 
inous Gothic tower, from the Middle Ages, stand before us. 

This ascent is, and always has been, the only one leading 
to the Acropolis ; from all other sides the rocks rise steep, 
and strong walls on the top make it still more inaccessible. 

Under the Turkish dominion, the colonnades of Propylea 
were walled up, and formed a part of the battery. The fluted 
marble columns now stand detached, and broken marble fig- 
ures, dug out of the gravel, are placed up in rows on the snow- 
white floor. The wind blew strong up here ; it whistled 
through the large pillars, which cast deep shadows in the sun- 
shine. 

I passed through the Propylea, and then stood on a place 
so disordered, so devastated, that I have never before seen 



THE ACROPOLIS. 1 69 

the like. It was as if an earthquake had shaken the gigantic 
columns and cornices together ; here was no longer a road or 
path. I made my way over the ruins of clay cabins, dating 
from the time of the Turks, where grass and acanthus shot 
richly forth. Here and there were seen demolished cisterns, 
and wooden sheds in which they had piled up vases, bass- 
reliefs, and plaster casts ; here lay human bones, and rusty, 
broken bomb-shells from the Venetians' time. Some few 
horses were grazing ; and in what looks like a gravel-pit, to the 
left, stood Erectheus' Temple with its caryatides. A ruinous 
stone column fills the place of the caryatide which Elgin stole 
for the British Museum. The skeleton of an ass lay before the 
excavated marble steps. A little to the right stands the Par- 
thenon, the most magnificent ruin on the Acropolis, wonderful 
still in its greatness and majesty. It is the temple of temples ; 
but every column is barbarously shivered, every bass relief in 
the frontispiece and frieze is disfigured ; and yet it is surpris- 
ing how much of it is still standing. During the siege by the 
Venetians a great part of it was blown into the air by the 
springing of the powder-magazine. In the struggle for liberty 
the Parthenon was the target for the bombs and balls ; and 
yet these remains have still a greatness which one can only 
conceive by standing between the splendid columns that 
support gigantic blocks of marble as if they were but light 
beams. A ruinous mosque stands athwart the interior of the 
temple : it now serves as a shed for the marble figures of 
gods and emperors ! On the side which looks toward the 
sea time has given the pillars a reddish-yellow tinge ; but 
most of the others are as white as if they had been hewn out 
of the marble quarry of Paros a year ago. 

When I entered, the whole temple lay in the broadest sun- 
light ; and as a background there rose, on the other side of 
the valley, the mountain Hymettus, over whose yellow-gray 
stone mass, without a trace of vegetation, a dark cloud cast 
its heavy shadow. Eternal God ! would that all mankind 
could see this greatness and glory ! Our thoughts become 
magnified in the midst of greatness ! Every little feeling was 
dead in my breast ; I was filled with joy, peace, and happi- 
ness ; and I bent my knee in this immense solitude. 



I^O A POET'S BAZAAR. 

A few paces from me, between the shivered marble blocks, 
where the wild thistle shot forth, lay many human bones ; 
they had cast a skull on one white marble block ; it made a 
strangely powerful impression on me. The tears streamed 
from my eyes. 

The storm roared between the columns j dark birds of prey 
flew over the valley of Hymettus. Directly under the rock 
lay Athens extended, looking almost a city indeed, with its 
white houses and red roofs. Snow had fallen on the moun- 
tains of Pentelicon and Parnassus. What a view around ; yet 
it was most beautiful toward the sea, which shone so vast 
and extended, so deeply blue, as it bore the white sails along. 
The air was so transparent, that I thought I could see over 
the whole Peloponnesus. I saw the distant mountain tops 
around Sparta; and toward the hill where Corinth stands, 
the road appeared very short, yet it is several days' journey 
by land. I saw the white walls of the fortification at Acro- 
Corinth with the naked eye, — even the angles they made, and 
the strong shadows they cast. 

When I descended I met my travelling companion, the Per- 
sian from Herat ; he nodded familiarly, gave me his hand, and 
pointed over the sea. This was our leave-taking. 

During my stay in Athens, I visited daily the Acropolis, 
whether it were sunshine or rain ! I celebrated my birthday 
by a visit here ; here I read my letters from home. The Acrop- 
olis was the last place I visited at Athens when I was about 
to leave ; my thoughts dwell longest on the Acropolis when 
they visit Greece. It was as if nature and art reposed on my 
breast in this place ; here I felt no want, except that all my 
dear friends could not participate with me in this spectacle. 

A sunset, seen from this place, is one of the most sublime 
sights I know. I have seen such a one. I sat on the steps 
of the Parthenon j everything was void and dead toward 
Hymettus ; black birds flew over the valley where a single 
white column stands. An ass brayed down there, and it 
sounded like the screams of a jackal ; the sun sank behind 
the Bay of Salamis, and the mountains shone with the most 
powerful colors. -^Egina was as blue as the freshest violets. 
The same colors, the same forms of the mountains, were seen 



A RAINY DAY IN A THENS. I 7 1 

by Plato, Socrates, and the great men of that world from the 
same spot as that from which I myself saw them. It was 
the same earth they had trodden. I felt, for a moment, that 
I was living in those times. The sun went down, and the glit- 
tering stars streamed forth over the dilapidated temples. I 
felt that God's work is eternal, man's perishable ; but I drank 
life's poetry from both, which (if God allows it to flourish and 
expand) shall refresh the heart of man. 



VI. 

A RAINY DAY IN ATHENS. 

Thick, heavy clouds hung over the mountain of Hymettus ; 
the weather was gray and cold; the unpaved street was 
covered with a yellow mud, caused by the rain during the 
night ; the thin walls in the houses ran down with water. 

The most important postman in the country — a Greek, 
who travels with money and letters overland to Patras — went 
by in his heavy, wet, swollen cloak. He drew the burdened 
horse along ; loaded pistols hung over its neck : it dragged its 
legs after it. The postman stopped at the apothecary's, and 
they rubbed the poor animal's lame legs with salve. 

The rain fell in large drops, and soon after came down in a 
heavy shower. Three different flocks of sheep stood in the 
narrow space before the church. They huddled closer and 
closer together. The shepherds leaned on their long staves in 
the midst of the rain, closely wrapped up in thick brown man- 
tles, with their clumsy hats pulled down over their heads ; 
they looked more like Greenlanders than we imagine Greeks 
to be. They stood bare-legged in the yellow mud. The rain 
poured down throughout the day, and was not until evening 
that it began to abate ; the wind tore the clouds asunder, and 
drove them away like mists. 

I ventured out. I saw a few black families, who had been 
slaves under the Turks, creep out of their low clay houses. 
The woman's whole dress consisted of a sort of loose gown 
and a dirty petticoat. She lay and baled water out over the 



I72 A POETS BAZAAR. 

threshold, whilst the little black children — one had only a red 
woolen shirt on — danced in the mud 

The whole extent from this, the last house in the street, and 
out to the Pentelicon and the mountains of Parnassus, ap- 
peared wild, and without road or path. A man in a sheepskin 
jacket, with a pipe in his mouth, rode over the heath j the 
wife and a grown daughter ran behind ; the woman had a little 
child in a bag on her back ; under one arm she had an iron 
pot, and under the other an empty pig-skin, in which there 
had been wine. The daughter carried a large bundle. They 
talked aloud and joyously. The man turned gravely round 
and nodded, then rode on quicker, and the wife and daughter 
held on by the horse's tail, that they might keep up with him. 
Everything there was as it should be : all found themselves in 
their right place, according to their habits. 

What a picture ! Those naked mountains where the cloud 
lies thick and heavy, as if it would stream down in torrents on 
the valley, and the valley itself without cabins, without the 
shepherd's torch, only with its pale gray thyme, and this wan- 
dering family ! Is this Greece ? Why do the misdeeds of the 
parents rest on the children through a hundred generations ? 

Along the broad beaten road where, ages since, young 
spirited Athenians exultingly betook themselves to Plato's 
academy, the poor, half-tired peasant now rides through the 
tall heather ; the ass knows the way it has to go. The place 
which Plato has made sacred, the place from which the mind's 
light streamed over the rest of Europe, now discloses but a 
large clump of stunted olive-trees. The sand hill close by is 
Colonos, to which the immortal name of GEdipus is joined for- 
ever. 

I took my way thither over the wet heath. A gutter, which 
is only a little above the surface of the earth in some places, 
and then has a sort of stone covering, is now the aqueduct 
from the mountains to Athens. One only observes it where it 
is half destroyed, as the shepherds and herdsmen, in order to 
procure water for their cattle, have taken away several of the 
covering stones, and thrown them aside. The loosened earth 
falls down into the water after the shower, and pollutes it. 

I stood on Colonos. A walled grave, in the form of a large 



THE RHAPSODISTS. \ J $ 

coffin, is found up here. They buried here, a short time ago, a 
man to whom science owes much, — namely, the German K. 
O. Miiller. His ashes rest in that land where he felt himself 
happiest ; the soil he loved received his dust. Young and 
contented, in the midst of his congenial labors, with no ex- 
pectations of him yet disappointed, he found death ! What 
could be happier ? 

I leaned against the wet tomb, and wished for what I have 
always wished — a short and brilliant life ! And the wind 
blew sharp and cold from the mountains ; watery clouds 
drove past me ; but even amid this northern aspect, nothing 
led my thoughts toward the North. A greatness lay in the 
whole landscape which not even Switzerland possesses ; there 
the mountains oppress ; here the valleys are as large as the 
mountains. Greece in her sorrow is too majestic for us to 
weep over • we are elevated by it. 



VII. 

THE RHAPSODISTS. 

The Greeks have a species of itinerant musicians — rhap- 
sodists — mostly old blind men, each a true Homer in his ex- 
terior ; yet there are also young lads who, from inclination, 
possessing musical talents, have chosen this way of life. They 
know an incredible number of songs, which they sing by the 
watch-fires on the mountains, or by the hearth of the rich 
Greek, and even execute whole pieces of music on the mando- 
lin. I have heard their songs and melodies to the national 
dances. 

I had determined to make an excursion to Delphi at the 
close of March, and to pass the second of April, my birthday, 
on Parnassus, — the real Parnassus ; but the gods willed it 
otherwise. The valleys near Delphi were covered with snow, 
the rivers had overflowed their banks, and it was raw and 
cold. I was obliged to stay in Athens ; but yet the Muses 
favored me. I had both song and music that day, and both 
the most peculiar I had heard in Greece. 



174 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

When I returned from the Acropolis, where I had passed 
the morning alone, I found a letter on my table with an invi- 
tation from Ross, stating that, as I could not pass that day 
on Parnassus, Parnassus had come to pass the day with me ! 
More than this what mortal or immortal poet could expect or 
demand? There were just then in Athens two itinerant rhap- 
sodists, — young Greeks from Smyrna, — and they w r ere to 
sing for me the best national songs j but we must hear them 
in the room, for the rain and storm continued without. The 
clouds had stretched their wet strings down to the earth, and 
the storm seized them. A mightier harp than this the gods 
could not attune ; and I was egotistical enough to attribute 
the whole to my birthday, which was celebrated by Glaucopis 
Athene. I went to Ross. The rhapsodists took their places ; 
they laid the left leg upon the right, and in this position they 
sat throughout : the one had his Venetian mandolin on his 
lap, the other played the violin, an instrument which has only 
come into use of late among these itinerant singers. They 
were both dressed in a blue Greek dress, and had a red fez 
on their head. They had both of them fine, animated faces, 
dark eyes, and beautifully penciled eyebrows. 

I believe the circumstance was accidental, but it was very 
peculiar. The order in which the songs were sung formed an 
entire modern Greek history. 

They began with a Greek song of complaint, composed by 
the people when they were still under the Turkish yoke. They 
sang about their herds and their daughters, that had been 
taken away. It did not sound as when two sing one and the 
same song. No, their voices crossed each other singularly ; 
each one had his loss, his grief, but yet it was the same story, 
the same suffering which was expressed. It was executed 
half gently, half complainingly, as if fear tied their tongues ; 
but at times the grief swelled to a wild scream ; it was as if 
a whole people wept ; it had something tremulous and heart- 
rending in it, like the song of the Israelites by the waters of 
Babylon. 

Now followed a song by Rhiga, the Beranger of Greece ; 
and they sang with much spirit the strophe, — 



THE RHAPSODISTS. I 75 

" Sparta, Sparta canst thou sleep ? 
Awake thee from thy deep death-sleep ! " 

Next they gave us a war-song which, in its melody, had a 
strange resemblance to the " Marseillaise," and yet this, as I 
was told, was original Greek. It alluded to the struggle of 
the Greeks for freedom. The rhapsodists then sang the song 
which the people had sung on King Otho's entrance into 
Nauplia. 1 felt myself deeply moved; a people's history 
written in musical notes goes deeper into the heart than that 
which is written with letters. 

The younger rhapsodist suddenly seized the chords and 
played a pot-pourri from " Fra Diavolo," " Robert le Diable," 
and several French operas on the violin. It was horrible ! It 
appeared to me like a vision which intimated how all these 
national tunes would cease, and how strange songs would 
force their way in amongst the people. Even now, the Greeks 
more willingly listen to the melodies of Auber than to their 
own national songs. 

They sang a Turkish song to conclude with. I have never 
heard anything more horrible. I thought at first that it was a 
parody, but Ross assured me that such was not the case ■ and 
I was afterward convinced of the truth of his assertion, both 
in Smyrna and Constantinople. One voice began quite softly, 
uttering words incomprehensible even to those who know the 
Turkish language. The voice sounded as if the singer mum- 
bled something in a dream. I fancied I heard an intoxicated 
opium-eater groaning in a troubled sleep ; the whole accom- 
paniment consisted of a thrumming on one and the same 
string, and always the same note. There was something so 
terribly despairing in this song ; and the burden sounded as 
if the singer had awoke and screamed — as if he were about 
to be murdered. 

When the rhapsodists left us, they each seized our hands, 
kissed them, and then laid them on their foreheads according 
to Greek custom. I was quite moved with what I had heard. 

In the forenoon, Greek songs ; in the evening, a national 
dance ; it was a real festal day. The Queen's chaplain, 
Liith, procured me this latter diversion. The dance was one 
of the popular kind. His two Greek man-servants, an old 



I76 A POETS BAZAAR. 

coffee-house keeper, and two young workmen from the city 
performed the dances. The rhapsodists made the violin and 
mandolin resound; and now and then one of them sang a 
short sentence, conveying a sentiment or a challenge to mirth, 
such as : " Enjoy yourselves ! " " Life is short ! " " Love is 
sorrow ! " " Love is delight ! " " Dance, ye youths ! " 

The whole row moved with grace over the floor. The one 
who was at the head stepped forward as a sort of dancing- 
chorus-leader; the others regarded his steps and positions, 
which they imitated. The nursery-maid in the house, a Greek 
girl from Zea, who was very pretty, had put on her best dress ; 
the turban, in particular, suited well with her dark hair and 
beautiful forehead. She now began a dance, peculiar to her 
country, with two of the men. Nothing more charming could 
be wished for, and yet they were, as I have said, all of the 
common class of the people. She did not hold the men by 
the hands, but by their belts ; they touched the upper part of 
her arm ; and at first they moved slowly forward, then back 
again ; all her motions intimated peace ; those of the men, on 
the contrary, signified life and passion ; she appeared to wind 
herself from them — they held her fast. Their looks and 
mien expressed strong feelings, but only one was favored. 

After they had sung and danced for us, some of our party 
danced a Tyrolese dance for them, which seemed to entertain 
them, for they imitated the positions of the dancers during 
the dance. One of the rhapsodists who, as they said, had 
some poetic talents, begged the favor to hear a song from the 
North, " an hyperborean song," as he expressed himself. 

I then sang him the song about the Danish peasant who 
begged that he might bear the body of King Frederick to its 
last resting-place. 1 And he heard how the people sang from 
the city walls a deep and sorrowful farewell, as the hearse was 
driven along the snow-covered road by torch-light ; how a 
small candle was placed in the window of the poorest cabin 
by the way-side, where stood old men and women with their 
grandchildren ; how they saw the torches burning, and folded 
their hands, and said : " Now comes the King's corpse ! " 

1 A funeral dirge over Frederick VI., with music by J. P- E. Hart- 
mann. 



DAPHNE. 



177 



And as I sang the song, I saw tears in the young girl's eyes. 
The younger of the rhapsodists begged that he might heat 
the words of the song once more. 

" He was a good King," said he ; and looked at me with 
a look of entreaty to repeat the melody ; and I sang it. 

When I left the house it was late in the evening, and the 
two rhapsodists accompanied me. The rain had ceased, but 
light and transparent watery clouds were driving across the 
sky, through which, nevertheless, we could see the glistening 
stars. On one side lay the large silent plain stretching to- 
ward the high mountains. 

It was as still as a night in Roeskilde Cathedral, where King 
Frederick rests. 

Suddenly one of the rhapsodists seized his violin, and 
played some parts of the melody, " The Danish Peasant and 
King Frederick ! " Perhaps he will compose a song himself 
after what he has heard, and sing it among the Greek moun- 
tains, and under the shady plantains of Asia — a song about 
the King in the North, who was borne to his tomb by the sor- 
rowing peasants. 

VIII. 

DAPHNE. 

There are several large corn-fields around Athens* but 
without fences of any kind to protect them from the incur- 
sions of pedestrians or equestrians, each of whom takes his 
way on foot or on horseback wherever he chooses, across 
the corn. When I proposed to go the circuitous way, they 
told me that the owners would be surprised to hear that I had ! 
given myself such trouble. Of high-roads there is, properly 
speaking, but one good one, namely, that between Athens and' 
Piraeus. The others, that to Thebes and one over Eleusis to- 
Corinth, are yet unfinished ; but even for short distances, on 
which we ought, by this time, to be able to drive, it is difficult 
to get forward, for the horses here will not draw ; they be- 
come refractory, turn about, or throw themselves down upon 
the ground. 



I78 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

I have several times heard the drivers say : " They won't go ! 
they don't know these roads ! But if you will drive to Piraeus 
you shall see they are horses that can run ! " One is every 
moment obliged to get out of the carriage ; the coachman leads 
the horses, and we get on at a foot-pace. 

After the road to Piraeus, that to Eleusis is certainly the best. 
Directly outside of Athens where the olive grove begins, we 
pass the far-famed river Cephissus, now only consisting of three 
small streams which many probably may pass by without re- 
marking. On the other side of the olive grove the country 
assumes a wild and desert-like appearance ; the road here runs 
close by antique traces of wheels in the rocks ; it is broad and 
even down toward the bay, and continues direct to Eleusis, 
which now only consists of about forty clay cabins and some 
ruins of ancient temples. I saw about a dozen fishing boats 
in the harbor. 

Directly between Athens and Eleusis stands in wild soli- 
tude the cloister of Daphne, 1 destroyed during the revolution. 
It is built in the Moorish style, and is now made use of by the 
gensdarmes who are here to insure safety to the traveller. 

Daphne is undeniably one of the most interesting and most 
picturesque points between Athens and Eleusis. I visited it 
in company with Ross, and Philippos Joan, 2 professor at the 
University of Greece. 

They pointed out to me ^Egina's high, dark-blue mountains : 
heavy clouds passed over the sky ; the Bay of Salamis lay cold 
and still. In the light in which we saw it, it had quite the 
appearance of a northern lake ; the rock by the way-side, over- 
grown with thyme and cypress bushes, disclosed a number of 
hewn recesses or niches in which votive tablets have been 
placed ; these holes, and some few porphyry and marble 
blocks here and there, are the only vestiges to remind one that 
the Temple of Venus once stood here. 

The air was cold, and the clouds cast strong shadows on the 
naked mountains : close by us lay the far-extended ruins of 
the monastery, partly surrounded by high walls, in the fissures 

1 The Greek word Daphne signifies a laurel -tree. 

a Professor Philippos Joan speaks German extremely well. 



DAPHNE. I79 

of which grew bushes and creeping plants. 1 Two wooden sheds 
were erected outside ; the one formed a sort of coffee-house, 
the other a species of bazaar for the few travellers or peasants 
who live miles away. These wooden sheds, close to the ruins, 
gave the landscape, as it were, the last pencil touch of Greek 
melancholy. 

We entered the monastery garden, which was overgrown with 
nettles a yard high, and beneath these were wells without any 
fence ; we had to look narrowly after them, and go step by 
step not to fall into them, for they were concealed by the net- 
tles. In this manner we came to the opposite side, where the 
wall seemed most convenient to ascend, and we soon stood on 
the half fallen-in roof of the church, where the vegetation was 
as rich as the building itself was dilapidated. One of the steps 
up here was the inverted cover of an antique marble sarcoph- 
agus, another was the remains of a fluted porphyry column. 
Mignonnette, chickweed, and thistles shot forth everywhere. 
The bat flew over our heads, in the broad daylight : here it 
was at home, here was its kingdom, even if the sun shone on 
its wings. 

In the cloister the monks' cells are likewise transformed 
into a large stable in which the gensdarmes keep their horses. 
The church is a splendid one, and might still be restored. 
We stood under the cupola, on which is painted a fine image 
of Christ. The Saviour holds the Bible in his left hand, and 
the right is extended in the attitude of benediction. During 
the revolution the Turks encamped here ; they lighted a large 
fire ; the walls are yet black with smoke. They smoked their 
pipes here, and amused themselves with shooting at the Chris- 
tian's Redeemer up in the cupola, and their balls struck one 
of the eyes, the mouth, and the holy glory ; the traces are to 
be seen distinctly in the mosaic image. They scratched out 
the images of the saints on the altar table, painted gross 
pictures over them, whilst their comrades laughed and ex- 
ulted with approbation. A number of skulls and bones, 

1 The church is six or eight hundred years old, and is built on the site 
of a temple of Apollo, of which a large marble column is to be seen in 
the walls of the church. There were three of them not very many years 
since ; but the English took two away. 



l8o A POET'S BAZAAR. 

found under bushes and nettles, lay thrown into a corner, 
between the altar and the altar wall used in the Greek church, 
which has three passages, and is painted from top to bottom 
with holy subjects ; these also had been defaced by the Turks ; 
but three small lamps were hung up and burned there. 
They are tended by an old Greek, who lives in the wooden 
shed outside, and who prepares coffee or pours out a glass of 
Naki l for the stranger. In this church he was baptized, in 
this church he concluded the compact of friendship, and in 
this church he was married. These events in his life took 
place under the dominion of the Turks. His friend fell in 
the war for freedom, — his bones perhaps moulder under the 
heath bushes ; his wife lies buried close by ; behind the dis- 
mantled walls there is a little path between the acanthus and 
nettles ; an olive-tree is planted close by a fallen-in well, and 
under the olive-tree is his wife's grave. 

The old Greek takes care of the lamps within the disman- 
tled church; he and the soldiers pay /their devotions there 
every festival day; and sometimes when a Greek priest comes 
by, he fastens his horse to the wooden shed, goes into the 
church, and reads a mass. The old Greek is often his sole 
hearer. 

In a few years he will also sleep under the olive-tree ; who 
will then take care of the burning lamps ? who will mow down 
the nettles from the grave ? 

O, the lamps will burn, lamps of silver will then be hung 
up ! The roses will bloom where the nettles now grow ! 
The good genius of Greece whispers it to us ! Daphne 
will arise from the sand, here by the road to Eleusis, which 
will be frequented by strangers, as the Italian roads now are. 
Daphne will flourish again ; in the yard where the thistles and 
nettles only grow, the laurel-tree will spread its branches, the 
incense shed its perfume, and kneeling children see a holy 
wound in the eye, mouth, and glory of Christ, where the Turk- 
ish balls once struck. 

May happiness and blessings rest on that land which gave 
birth to a Theseus, a Plato, and a Socrates ! 

1 A Greek spirit prepared from dried grapes. 



THE FEAST OF FREEDOM. iSl 



IX. 



THE FEAST OF FREEDOM. 



The sixth of April is the Greek Feast of Freedom. On that 
day the revolt began ; on that day the first Turkish blood 
flowed : the Cross is now planted where the Crescent stood ; 
the Cross stands on the ruins ; the stillness of death reigns in 
the valleys where the thunders of war resounded. The flag 
of freedom waves this day in the poorest village throughout 
the land ; the shepherd betakes him to the church ruins in 
the solitary mountains, hangs up a burning lamp before the 
scratched-out images on the riven walls, and reads his thanks- 
giving prayer. Greece is free ! 

I was at Athens this year on the day of the feast. It was 
a beautiful, sunshiny day ; not a cloud in the sky \ not a cold 
breeze from the mountains. 

The bands of the several regiments were heard through the 
streets in the morning. I saw from my window the martial 
ranks of handsome young Greeks, with brown faces and 
dark eyes ; a little flag waved on each lance. They looked 
well, but they would have looked still handsomer if they had 
been dressed in the national costume ; at least I thought so, 
for in the uniform of the Franks they appeared to me like for- 
eign troops. Pretty Greek boys, in red jackets and white 
fostanelles, ran about the streets. The superior classes of 
Greeks, richly dressed in splendid, showy colored clothes, with 
gold and silver embroidery, and with sabre and dagger, stood 
in the balconies. The women had their hair in large plaits, 
laid round the little red fez j the short velvet tunic was worn 
open in front, displaying a golden bodice. Most of the men 
and women had a branch of myrtle or a bouquet of gilly- 
flowers in their hands. Peasants from the mountains, in sheep- 
skin jackets and with high caps, leaned proudly against the 
low columns of the church, and looked at the cavalry. A 
hundred lamps burned within the church ; and from my win- 
dow I could smell the incense which streamed out of the 
open doors. The Venetian mandolin tinkled, and the white- 
bearded veteran sang Rhigas' war song : — 



l8^> A POETS BAZAAR. 

" Ho, wake up, ye sons of Greece ! " 

The largest church in Athens, which is situated in ^Eolus 
Street, has not the least appearance of a church, nor has it 
been erected for a religious purpose ; but when Athens ac- 
quired a court, all the churches were too small to contain the 
members of the royal household, the corps diplomatique, and 
other authorities, as well as the people on festival days. They 
were, therefore, obliged to choose this building, which is a 
whitewashed house, with a sort of veranda of planks and 
beams, and which has a small staircase of rough boards on 
one side, conducting to a small door which leads to the royal 
pew. The first time I saw the building, I thought it was a 
theatre or sort of town-hall. To-day the church was crowded 
to suffocation with the clergy, the royal family and suite, the 
ministers and officers of state alone. The officer on guard, 
however, allowed me admission as a stranger. The Greek 
bishop, in glittering splendor, took his place before the altar, 
between die full-robed priests, who sang a highly inharmoni- 
ous song. The King and Queen, both in Greek costume, sat 
beneath a velvet canopy adorned with the crown and sceptre. 
The Crown Prince of Bavaria in uniform had a place beside 
them. The religious forms appeared to me more peculiar and 
strange than really solemn. Whilst the priests sang, the mili- 
tary bands played merrily without ! Their music sounded 
wild and martial, as if one were in the midst of battle, where 
the priest prays, where the warrior sings, and the musket 
cracks, — shot after shot. And there was a cracking without ! 
" Long live the King ! " sounded in the church when he and 
the Queen drove away. There were three or four carriages 
in the whole. Most of the diplomatists walked : one felt that 
this was a kingdom on the advance. The whole street, the 
balconies, and windows were filled with Greeks, one head by 
the side of the other. Thousands of red fez, variegated jack- 
ets, and white skirts were displayed in the sunshine. The 
handsome men and boys were pleasing to look upon. Of 
women there were not many, and those we saw were ugly. 

After my breakfast I rode out with my countrymen, Pro- 
fessor Ross, Koppen, the brothers Hansen, and other friends, 
toward the mountains, to see the festivity in one of the nearest 



THE FEAST OF FREEDOM. I 83 

villages. We rode down the small mountain path past Lyca- 
bettus to the village of Maruzze, the clay cabins of which, with 
their white washed walls and little fruitful gardens, appeared 
very smart. All the inhabitants sat in the street, which was so 
small that they were obliged to retire into the houses when we 
came riding through. The flag of freedom was planted out- 
side the church : it was white with a blue cross. A beauti- 
ful little girl, in a black velvet tunic, the snow-white sleeves 
of her chemise hanging out broad from the elbow around 
her small brown arms, sat on a bundle of cypress branches 
at a little distance from the flag, with a face so regularly hand- 
some, eyes so dark, and eyebrows so finely penciled that — I 
know not how it was, but this little one, as she sat there on 
these symbols of death, appeared to me to be Greece's genius 
of beauty, over whom the flag of freedom once more waved. 

Our destination on this little journey was, however, the next 
town, Cephissia. The road thither is called a carriage-road ; 
but even in Greece it can only be a carriage-road for those 
who are doomed to break their necks. In the rest of Europe, 
no one can form a conception of such a road ; the worst must, 
in comparison with this, be called the broad way of sin which 
leads comfortably to the lower regions ! The Greek horses 
stand firm on the rugged mountains, and, consequently, here 
also. The rivulets ran sometimes on the side of the road and 
sometimes in the middle, full a foot deep : magnificent laurel- 
trees and flourishing Oleaceae grew on both sides. In the 
fields — I dare scarcely call these inclosures gardens — were 
wild pears and almond-trees. The herdsmen drove a few 
herds of cattle. We greeted them in the Greek manner, with a 
" Met in a happy hour ! " and they answered blithely, " Many 
happy years to you ! " 

When Greece was under the Turkish yoke, the village of 
Cephissia was still more flourishing, for the rich Athenian 
Turks had their summer residences there. Athens will rise 
again year by year, and handsome villas will spring up in the 
fruitful district. In the middle of the village stands a Turk- 
ish mosque, which is now converted into a stable. The founda- 
tion of the minaret is the only part of it remaining, but before 
it grows the largest and finest plantain I have yet seen. 



I 84 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

The strong bowed branches formed a crown which almost 
overshadowed the whole open place. We spread our cloaks 
out on the grassy carpet under the tree, placed our wine bot- 
tles about us, and made a meal, surrounded by Greek women, 
who, it being their fast time, certainly envied us our nourishing 
dishes. After our repast we took a pleasant road through the 
woods, where the fountains rippled, where everything was lux- 
uriant and green, reminding me of the fruitful tract between 
Naples and Posilippo. Wild fruit-trees and odorous vines 
grew round about the tract down to the large olive grove ; 
here were arable land and vineyards. We saw what Greece 
could be made, and it appeared to me on this day of liberty 
to be a prophetic sight. 

In the midst of the wood was a rocky basin. The rivulet 
formed small cascades. We descended the falls ; the green 
branches hung over our heads, and the water splashed fresh 
and clear ; the sunbeams made the leaves transparent ; the 
birds twittered in the bushes, and on the path close by there 
came a cavalcade of ladies and gentlemen on horseback in Eu- 
ropean dresses, who belonged to the court of King Otho ; we 
greeted each other, and they disappeared behind the hedges. 
Now came one who had lingered behind, a young girl on 
horseback in full Greek costume, and with the red fez fastened 
on her jet-black hair. Her royal brow, her bold dark eyes, 
and her daring carriage, made us believe that we saw a real 
Amazon. She darted like a beautiful vision through the wood 
— like the Queen of the Grecian elves ! She was the daughter 
of the hero Marco Bozzaris, the most beautiful woman in 
Athens, and one of the ladies of honor to the Queen of Greece. 

The sun began to approach the mountains ; we mounted 
our horses again, but it was dark before we reached Athens. 
The whole Acropolis was illuminated with many lights. The 
effect was splendid ; the radiance beamed aloft in the blue air, 
and as we by degrees approached Athens we looked over the 
city, and it appeared as if it were a ray of glory from the many 
lamps and lights with which the houses were illumined. Can- 
dles were fixed in the balconies ; lustres festooned with flowers 
and covered with colored lamps, hung across the street, or 
outside the open shops ; the fruit bazaars glowed with light, 



THE FEAST OF FREEDOM. 1 85 

and showed their glowing oranges, dark-brown dates, and 
large walnuts. In many of the windows were placed engrav- 
ings, — portraits of the poet Rhigas, Miaulis, Marco Bozzaris, 
and King Otho. In ^Eolus Street were several transparencies ; 
on one we saw a grave, from which a young Greek arose with 
the flag of freedom in his hand ; on another was a Greek ship 
in a storm. Beneath them all we read appropriate verses in 
modern Greek. 

One transparency, in particular, attracted attention ; it repre- 
sented a goat gnawing a vine ; the Greek verse beneath is well 
known, as well as the German translation, which runs thus : — 

" Friszt Du mich auch bis zur Wurzel, doch trag'ich Trauben genug noch, 
Wein zu spenden, o Bock, wenn Du — als Opfer erliegst ! " 



I found it applied justly to the Turks, whose yoke the peo- 
ple had groaned under ; however, some Bavarians whom I met 
explained the verse quite differently, supposing it was intended 
for them ! Certain it is, that the Greeks do not favor these 
strangers ; but during my stay I never observed any visible 
signs of dislike. 

^Eolus Street, the broadest in Athens, and which extends in 
a direct line toward the Acropolis, was crowded with joyous 
Greeks ; lamps and candles converted night into day. The 
bands of the regiments passed along playing martial airs. The 
buildings toward the Acropolis formed terraces for the rows 
of lamps; the red flame on the topmost wall of the city 
brought into view the old temple columns in a flickering light. 
Songs, accompanied by the mandolin, sounded from the open 
shops, and in the Franks' coffee-house there was a crowd 
around the latest journals, to see what the rest of Europe said 
about the revolt of the Candians. The news from Crete, the 
verbal as well as what the journals brought, in a measure 
varied; but it was reported, as a certainty, that arms and am- 
munition had been sent secretly from the magazine at Patras. 
More than one cup was emptied by the enthusiastic Greeks to 
the success of the Candians. 

The report of muskets and songs was heard until far into 
the night in the city of Athens, and in the stone cabins amongst 
the lonely mountains. 



A POET'S BAZAAR. 



THE MARBLE LION. 



It was on a beautiful sunshiny day that we trotted merrily 
out of Athens over the wide, rugged plain, through the native 
place of Socrates, where wild fruit-trees formed small gardens. 
A solitary cloister lay toward Hymettus; we went at a brisk 
trot, and my agojal ran by my side. 

The prospect between Pentelicon and Hymettus opened 
upon an extensive surface, and what a blue and shining sea 
was there ! We saw the island of Zea and the whole Negro- 
pont with its beautifully formed mountain. On our way thither, 
we saw only one single, lonely cabin, with a rush-thatched 
roof, reaching nearly to the ground. The woman and chil- 
dren came out to see the strangers. We ordered our coffee 
with her, to be ready on our return, and then rode away over 
plants, bushes, and tall Oleacese. 

All was wide and void. The ruins of a church stood on 
the heath, with a magnificent olive-tree outside, worthy of 
being painted. Close by lay a large marble lion, an antique 
monument j Lais himself had such a one on his grave. It 
was strangely impressive to find here, in this desert, a torso 
of the beautiful works of art. With the exception of the feet, 
the lion is whole ; the expression of the eyes intimates that 
a cunning hand has used the chisel. The mane is only partly 
executed. 

Strong creeping plants wound up around its sides, as if they 
would bind it to the grave it adorned — that grave which no 
one knew. 

As we stood here and regarded it, a herdsman stepped sud- 
denly forth from the church ruins ; he was singing, but stopped 
on seeing us. It was a melancholy song he sang, which 
my companions knew well. It was genuine Athenian. We 
begged him to repeat it ; he leaned against the marble lion, 
and sang about the bewitched lover. 

And the sun shone on the white marble lion which the wild 
plants held bound ; the sun shone on the handsome, sorrowful 
Greek who sang, and on the extended landscape around, which 



THE EASTER FESTIVAL IN GREECE. iSj 

presented a picture of greatness and solitude. That melan- 
choly tone in the song overlaid the whole expanse of the 
scenery ; it intruded itself into our minds, and did not desert us 
when we entered the lonely cottage, where all the light there 
was came through the open door. The woman stood raking 
some large black loaves out of the hot ashes in the middle of 
the floor ; painted eggs of different colors were stuck in each 
loaf in honor of Easter. The man stood quite carelessly, and 
looked at his wife's work. A little boy played in the door- 
way. I gave him a small coin ; he smiled quite pleased, and 
told me his name was Demetrius. The black loaves with the 
painted eggs made his festival : he was happy in anticipation 
of them, and had waited with anxiety for the hour when they 
were to be taken out of the ashes. That dark cabin was his 
paradise ; the marble lion his riding-horse : his mother had 
often placed him on its back, whilst she gathered heath-ber- 
ries by the walls of the ruined church. 



XI. 

» THE EASTER FESTIVAL IN GREECE. 

The Easter of the Catholics in Italy, and particularly in 
Rome, is grand, fascinating ; it is an elevating sight to see that 
immense mass of beings fall on their knees in St. Peter's 
Place, and receive a benediction. The Easter festival in 
Greece cannot show such magnificence, its resources are 
too small ; but after having seen both, one comes to the con- 
viction that in Rome it is a feast which in its glory and splen- 
dor issues out from the Church to the people ; but in Greece 
it is a feast which streams from the heart and thoughts of the 
people — from their very life ; the Church is but a link in the 
chain. Previous to Easter there is a long and rigorous fast 
which is religiously observed, the peasants living almost en- 
tirely on bread, onions, and water. 

The Athenian newspaper appeared on Good Friday with a 
black border, in memory of the death of Christ : the vignette- 
title was a sarcophagus with a weeping willow, and above it 



*l88 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

was a poem on the Passion by Lutzos. The festival itself be- 
gan that evening. I went to the principal church ; it was 
splendidly illuminated and completely full : before the altar 
stood a glass coffin, fastened with silver plates. The coffin 
contained fresh roses, intended to represent the dead Saviour. 
A strange humming of voices from the praying congregation 
sounded through the house of God ! Priests, in parti-colored 
vestments, and bishops, came and went before the altar where 
they read the prayers. At nine o'clock in the evening sacred 
music began, and the procession started from the church 
through the chief street, to the palace. I saw the slowly 
moving procession conveniently from my window ; it was one 
of the most solemn I have ever seen. It was a glittering 
starlight night, so mild and calm ! Every spectator in the 
balconies and open windows stood with a burning candle in 
his hand. The music ascended to us from the side-street • 
the smell of incense filled the air. Mournful music proceeded 
from the military bands as though the people carried their 
King to his grave. The coffin containing the fresh red roses 
was borne along, surrounded by the priests ; over it hung a 
long red mourning veil which was held by the chief states- 
men and higher officers of the kingdom. A crowd of these 
officers, and then the great mass of people, all, as I have said, 
with burning candles, concluded the procession. There was 
a stillness, an apparent sorrow or devotion, which worked its 
effect upon every mind. The Bishop made a short speech 
outside the palace where the King and Queen stood, and then 
the King kissed the holy Bible. During the whole ceremony 
there was a monotonous ringing of bells, always two strokes 
and then a short pause ; day and night the church was filled 
with people. The King, the Queen, and the whole court 
were there on the midnight before Easter Day : the priests 
stood praying and mourning around the flower-filled coffin ; 
the whole congregation prayed in silence. The clock struck 
twelve, and at the same moment the Bishop stepped forth, and 
said : " Christ is risen ! " " Christ is risen ! " burst from every 
tongue. Kettle-drums and trumpets sent forth their strains ; 
the music played the liveliest dances ! The whole people fell 
on each other's necks, kissed, and joyously cried, " Christ 



THE COURT IN ATHENS. 189 

is risen ! " Shot after shot was heard outside ; rockets darted 
into the air, torches were lighted, men and young lads, each 
with a candle in his hand, danced in a long row through the 
city. The women kindled fires, slaughtered lambs, and roasted 
them in the streets. Little children, who had all got new fez 
and new red shoes, danced in their shirts around the fires, 
kissed each other, and exclaimed like their parents, " Christ 
is risen !•" O, I could have pressed each of these children 
to my heart and exulted with them. " Christ is risen ! " It 
was touching, elevating, and beautiful. 

It may be said that the whole was a ceremony ; and it may 
be added, certainly with some truth, that their rejoicings ex- 
pressed the satisfaction of the people that the rigorous fast 
was over, and that now they could eat their lamb, and drink 
their wine: well, admit that the fact was so, still I dare 
venture to say there was something more ; there was a true, a 
sincere religious jubilee. Christ was in their thoughts, as on 
their lips. " Christ is risen ! " was the mutual assurance, made 
as though it were no by-gone event ; no, it was as if it had 
taken place on that night, and in this land. It was as if the 
assurance had reached their ears at that moment, and for the 
first time. 

There were music and dancing everywhere in the capital, 
and in every little town throughout the kingdom. All labor 
was suspended, every one thought only of pleasure; there 
were dancing and mirth near Theseus's Temple and under 
Zeus's marble columns. The mandolin twanged, the old 
joined in the song; and during the general joy the words of 
welcome and leave-taking were : " Christ is risen ! " 



XII. 

THE COURT IN ATHENS. 

It was from the olive grove on the way from Eleusis, that 
King Otho saw the Acropolis and his royal city of Athens for 
the first time. Then Athens was almost a heap of rubbish, 
with a few wretched clay huts and some wood and brick 



I9O A POET'S BAZAAR. 

houses ; a couple of these connected with a sort of pleasure 
garden, constituted his palace, and now serves for it occasion- 
ally until the new marble palace is completed. 

It is an extremely modest building that the King occupies \ 
it would, in any other country in Europe,, be taken for a pri- 
vate gentleman's summer villa ; a grass plot, ornamented with 
a few shrubs, lies before it, and there the body-guard draws up 
daily, the band playing airs from " Masaniello," " Elisir 
d'Amore," or " Scaramouch," etc., and the Greek nursery girls 
dance the little children in their arms to the merry tunes. 

The young and amiable Queen is said to have been edu- 
cated in a most domestic manner in her home in Oldenburg. 
She entered the frugal palace with a spirit of contentment, and 
the people greeted her with shouts and welcome. They told 
me that all the streets were strewn with roses on her arrival, 
and that she had a bouquet herself of still rarer, and therefore 
more beautiful flowers. Potatoes had then been just intro- 
duced into Greece, and they had begun to use them. The 
blossom on the tops of the potatoes appeared to the Greeks 
as the rarest and prettiest flower they knew ; and therefore 
they brought the Queen, who came from Oldenburg, a bouquet 
of potato flowers ! 

The King is of the Roman Catholic religion, the Queen of 
the Lutheran, and the children who may be born to them are 
to be Greek Catholic. I believe that the young royal pair 
are beloved by the nation, for I have heard several Greeks 
mention their names with affectionate enthusiasm. And they 
merit it ; a royal pair so young, and so amiable. It is no 
happiness to reign in Greece. How much have they not re- 
signed by living here ! 

How many troubles must inevitably touch the King's heart 
for this people, and this land's sake ! He who reigns alone 
in a devastated classic land, rich in noble monuments ; alone 
with a people — well — I know them too little to pronounce 
upon them — but I love not this race. The Turks pleased 
me far better ; they were honorable and good-natured. 

God grant the noble King Otho constancy and persever- 
ance. 

The King and Queen travel about the country annually, 



THE COURT IN A THENS. I g I 

and are everywhere received with enthusiasm. The people 
come from a great distance with complaints and petitions ; the 
young King listens to all, and has their case examined into, 
so that these journeys often produce much good ; but they 
are in themselves not so convenient, though everything is done 
to mitigate the annoyances with which every journey in Greece 
is filled. Servants are sent on before ; tents are erected where 
they can pass the night ; the tables are found laid out amongst 
the wild rocks ; the champagne foams, and shepherds and 
shepherdesses dance on the plain outside the tent, whilst the 
evening sun shines on the solitary marble column and the 
high mountains. There is the decoration of nature, with a 
ballet which the classic scene alone, where the gods once ap- 
peared, can furnish; but many disagreeable circumstances 
frequently happen ; many painful occasions arise. I will give 
an instance. 

Last year the royal party reached a small village where, the 
night before their arrival, fourteen robbers had been com- 
mitting depredations. When the King heard of this, he 
immediately set out after them, with the whole of his little 
life-guard. The Queen, her ladies, and a few gentlemen re- 
mained behind, in anxious expectation as to the result. The 
King, however, did not come up with any of the robbers ; but 
some of the peasants of the village were more successful, suc- 
ceeding in capturing several the following night, with whom 
they made short work, for they cut their heads off, and came 
running with them the next morning to the royal tent. 

The King had, up to the time of my departure, only signed 
one warrant of execution, and this was for a well-known and 
dangerous robber. The Greeks, who themselves think noth- 
ing of cutting off the head of such a fellow, cannot understand 
how the law should demand the sacrifice of life, an example 
of which was given me, in relation to the execution of the 
aforesaid robber, which took place the year before. The gov- 
ernment was obliged to write to Malta for an executioner, for 
no Greek could be found to undertake the office. 

The robber was led out to the olive grove, accompanied by 
a guard of soldiers, and a numerous mass of the populace ; but 
when he had been brought there, and the German soldiers had 



192 A POETS BAZAAR. 

formed a circle around him, he protested against the execu- 
tion. " It was something," he said, " that they were not used 
to here ! " and began to wrestle with the executioner. It is 
said to have been terrible to look upon : the combat lasted 
about two hours, and the soldiers durst not venture to interfere 
between them. " We must take care that he does not es- 
cape," said they ; " that is our duty." The executioner had 
nearly lost his head in this conflict. The robber at length 
sank exhausted and wounded to the ground, where he received 
his death-blow. The executioner is said to have been secretly 
murdered afterward. I, however, only tell the story as it was 
told to me in Athens. 

During my stay, I had the honor of being presented to the 
King and Queen, who both showed me a kindness and favor, 
which, in connection with the inward prepossession I had felt 
for the royal pair in that new, flourishing Greece, made the 
impression of both indelible in my heart. 

I regard it as a hard fate to reign at this moment in Greece ; 
and doubly hard for a young prince whose heart feels warmly 
for his kingdom and his people. 

The apartments in the palace are small but comfortable, 
and one feels at ease there. The King and Queen received 
me in company. He was dressed in the Greek costume, and 
she in a Frankish suit of mourning, a near relative of hers be- 
ing just then dead. The King appears very young, but some- 
what pale and suffering; he has lively eyes, and there is a 
very mild and amiable expression in his features. Our con- 
versation was about Greece, its climate, monuments, and 
beauty ; and I stated that I found the Greek mountains much 
more beautiful in form and color than the Italian. They ap- 
peared to have made the same impression on the King, who 
talked with vivacity and spirit. 

I expressed my opinion that it must be extremely interesting 
to him to see Athens growing up, as it were, before his eyes ; 
for the stranger here, every few weeks, perceives an enlarge- 
ment of the city. He asked me what impression the town of 
Syra and its harbor had made on me, and seemed to be glad 
to hear of the activity and the number of vessels I had found 
there. 



PR OKESCH- OS TEN. 1 9 3 

The Queen is young and handsome ; she has an aspect of 
mildness and wisdom. She spoke most of my intended voy- 
age to Constantinople, and of the passage of the Danube, 
which appeared to her to be long, and very troublesome. 

It is a fine sight to see the King and Queen, both young 
and animated, surrounded by their ladies and gentlemen, rid- 
ing in Greek costume along the road over the heath. The 
eye easily recognizes the two chief figures in the picture ; but 
still a third is prominent — it is a young female on horseback 
— we already know her : it is the hero, Marco Bozzaris' daugh- 
ter, the Queen's maid of honor. With the red fez on her jet- 
black hair, she follows her young Queen like the beautiful 
genius of Greece ; her long, dark eyelashes are set like silken 
fringes over her fiery eyes. She is beautiful as she rides on 
her noble horse, and she is beautiful when she tarries so that 
we can fully regard her face. 

I was presented to her one evening at the residence of Frau 
Pluskov, the Queen's first lady of honor. I only heard her 
speak Greek and Italian. Amongst the many different pic- 
tures that my memory has brought from Greece, Marco Boz- 
zaris' daughter is the beauteous ideal of the daughters of that 
land. 



XIII. 

PROKESCH-OSTEN. 

Amongst the diplomatists at the court of Athens, the Aus- 
trian Minister, Prokesch-Osten was the most interesting. I 
had read his " Travels in the Holy Land," and some of his 
beautiful oriental poems : he became doubly dear and inter- 
esting to me by personal acquaintance, and all the kindness 
and attention he showed me. Anton Prokesch was born on 
his father's estate in Gratz on the 10th of December, 1795 '■> 
and when a boy distinguished himself by his dexterity in swim 
ming and skating. In 18 13 he fought for his native land ; 
afterward was appointed Professor of Mathematics at the Col- 
lege for Cadets in Olmutz ; was subsequently Adjutant to 
Prince Schwartzenburg, and by his spirited military writings 
13 



194 



A POET'S BAZAAR. 



soon became the subject of much interest and attention. As 
Lieutenant-colonel in the staff, he arrived at Trieste, where 
the sight of the sea awoke his desire to travel : the Greek na- 
tion was the one for which he felt most interest. He went to 
Greece, Asia Minor, and Constantinople, where he effected 
much good for the Austrian trade in the Levant. After hav- 
ing again travelled through Greece and the islands, he stayed 
one winter in Constantinople, and then went over Asia Minor 
to Egypt and Nubia, where he connected himself with Me- 
hemet Ali. On his return home he took Smyrna in his way. 
He acted with equally as much prudence as severity against 
the powerful mass of pirates that infested the whole Mediter- 
ranean. In 1828, during a visit to Capo d'Istria in Paros, he 
effected an exchange of Greek and Arabian prisoners. The 
year after, we see him in Palestine with the Paha of St. Jean 
d'Acre, a man who is equally well-known for his peculiar- 
ities, as by his firm will and austerity : he concluded a treaty 
with him in favor of the Christians in Palestine and Galilee. 

After the Greeks became free, Prokesch was recalled to 
Vienna. The Emperor raised him to the rank of nobility, 
and, as he had gained his knightly spurs in the East, he gave 
him the surname of " Osten." In 1822, he lived in Rome, 
where he was appointed Austrian Ambassador ; he now fills 
the same post in the capital of Greece. 

One of the furthermost buildings in Athens, in the direc- 
tion of Parnassus, is a simple but elegantly arranged villa. 
The glass door opens ; we turn our backs to the extended 
heath and the high mountains, and on seeing the polished, 
carpeted stairs, we think we are at a summer residence by 
the Danube's imperial city. This belief almost changes into 
certainty when we are ushered into the tastefully decorated 
rooms, and see rococo furniture, modern rocking-chairs, mag- 
nificent mirrors, and paintings. An amiable host and hostess 
greet us in German. We are in the presence of Prokesch- 
Osten and his talented lady. There is nothing here to remind 
us that Athens is in its early growth. This villa may rank 
with those of Naples, Vienna, and Copenhagen. 

Prokesch-Osten is a handsome, powerful man, with dark, 
expressive eyes. He is an excellent lecturer. When I was 



PROKESCH-OSTEN. 



!95 



introduced into his house for the first time, he was requested 
by the company, after dinner, to read one of his poems. He 
promised to comply ; but he first took a volume of Chamisso's 
poems, and read those of mine which Chamisso has trans- 
lated ; he read them with such effect that they sounded like 
music, and the imagery in each became visible. Read as they 
were, they could not fail of pleasing. I was, on account of 
this reading of my poems, presented in the handsomest man- 
ner to those to whom I was an entire stranger in that circle. 

Of his oriental poems there was one, composed in June, 
1826, as he rode over Mount Ida, which his dramatic style of 
reading particularly recommended to my liking. On my de- 
parture from Athens he gave me a copy of it, and I will insert 
it here : — 

" Den Sabel zur seite, Geschoss in der Hand 
Durchstreif ich mit frohlichen Muthe das Land. 
Wohl hausst auf dem waldigen Ida die Schaar 
Wildharzige Rauber voll Trotz in Gefahr, 
Mit blinkenden Waffen und wieherndem Ross 
Mit Herden und Weibern und dienendem Tross. 

" Sie senden die Blicke weit iiber die Flur, 
Erspah'n in der Feme des Wanderers Spur, 
Behorchen der edlen Kamehle Gelaut, 
Sind immer zu Handen so morgen als heut — 
Sie lauschen am Felsen, sie lauschen im Wald, 
Und treiben das alteste Handwerk, Gewalt. 

" Nur muthig und vorwarts ! S'ist jedvedem Land 
So mancherlei eigen — dem Weiber und Sand, 
Dem anderen hohe Cypressen und Wein, 
Es muss auch dem Ida sein Eigenes seyn, 
Homeros und Rauber und pfadloser Wald, 
Und erzreicher Felsen erhabne Gestalt ! " 

During the reading, it appeared to me that I myself hur- 
ried on through the steep mountains. I saw him armed with 
sabre and pistols, and with the same fiery look with which he 
recited his description. The bandit troop peeped forth from 
the mountain-pass ; the camels' bells rang, and all was again 
silent in that great, wild, pathless solitude. 

I owe to Prokesch, not only many pleasant and entertain- 



I96 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

ing hours during my stay in Athens, but also a friendly re- 
ception at Constantinople, and hospitality there, of which I 
shall afterward speak. He and his lady seemed to be fond of 
my " Eventyr " (" Tales and Adventures for Youth ") in par- 
ticular, and begged me to write more soon. These pages, 
should they ever meet their eyes, must tell that, in my own 
life's adventures, the hours that I passed with them form one 
of the chapters I find most interesting — only that it seems 
far too short. 



XIV. 

A SHORT JOURNEY. 

During the fine weather we made an excursion to the mar- 
ble quarries in Pentelicon. From the desert heath, at the 
foot of Lycabettus, and out to the mountains, the road is full 
of incident. Even over this short extent, a painter might col- 
lect a whole book of interesting sketches. 

One of the first must be the picture of a khan or inn, as 
we saw it, in the little village of Kalandri. The fire-place 
was in a corner of the floor ; the walls were decorated with 
shelves, on which stood wine and eatables, fruit and articles 
of trade ; but from all the shelves long stripes of gold and sil- 
ver paper fluttered in the breeze like fringes. There were two 
musical fellows ; the one beat a drum, and the other played the 
flute; six others danced in a row, — a gray-haired man was 
the leader, and he made the most singular movements. They 
danced three times round the room, then out of the house, and 
down the road, where a group of Greek women, in their pic- 
turesque dresses, looked on. A couple of the youngest girls 
had violet-colored velvet jackets ; and their beautiful dark 
plaited hair was laid like a border round the little red fez. 
The sun shone on the women, so that they had to hold their 
hands before their eyes to see the dancers. It was a charm- 
ing picture. 

Wild olive, pear, and almond-trees formed beautiful groups 
to sketch. As a foreground to one of these pictures, should 
be placed our expedition, the pedestrians as well as the eques- 



A SHOR T JO URNE Y. 1 9 7 

trians, and amongst the last were two tortoises. Every mo- 
ment we saw one of these animals lying still, like a block of 
stone, or creeping on at snail's pace in the middle of the road. 
I would not have them driven over ; nay, I thought that we 
ought to help them forward a little in the world, and so I set 
them up with the coachman. They drove with us to the Pen- 
telicon, and perhaps they now sun themselves on the plains 
of Marathon. There was a young tortoise, no larger than a 
watch. I laid many plans for it, and took it likewise with 
me ; but, as it afterward occurred to me that it would suffer 
hunger and thirst the further I travelled, I took it into a wood 
of oleander-trees, where the rays of the sun played freely ; 
and it was right glad of its liberty ! 

The cloister of Pentelis stands here on the side of the 
mountain, as in a waste and deserted garden. At first sight, it 
has the appearance of a large, neglected dairy farm : the walls 
are riven, and grown over with wild plants, like the walls of 
Daphne. The only thing that intimated life and motion was 
a flock of poultry, hopping about on the heaps of rubbish in 
the foremost yard. Outside the little church, the door of 
which stood open, so that the sun shone in on the burning 
lamps, stood a large laurel-tree. It was in full bloom, so rich, 
so odorous ; and I was so happy ! One of the priests saw 
my enthusiasm, and immediately broke off a branch which he 
presented to me. I have divided it at home, in Denmark, be- 
tween Thorwaldsen's bust and Oehlensch lager's portrait. 1 

Outside the cloister, down the mountain, there lay, between 
the green, wood-covered hills, a charming valley, with a fresh- 
running rivulet, tall poplars, and blooming fruit-trees. The 
mountains of Morea rose in the horizon ; the one row far 
above the other in rich tones of color. Our horses grazed in 
the green meadow. A large fire was kindled, and a whole 
lamb placed on the spit, which was turned by a pretty Greek 
boy. Everything was prepared for our meal in the green fields. 

1 When I visited the place, near Athens, they call Socrates' prison, — a 
chamber cut in the side of the rock, at Areopagus, — my thoughts were 
with the great poet of the North, the only one who, from the Danish stage, 
has reminded the public of Socrates. Close by the entrance to the cavern 
stood a beautiful red flower. I plucked it, and sent it in a letter with a 
greeting to Oehlenschiager in Denmark. 



I98 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

But we must first see the marble quarries of the Pentelicon. 
The road lay through thickets and bushes, where a few little 
boys tended the cattle and sheep belonging to the cloister. 
Large tortoises crawled round about ; one was lying sprawling 
on its back in the sun, and I was its unknown benefactor. 

It was a troublesome excursion, continually upward, over 
large blocks of stone, amongst thorns and brambles ; but still we 
must see the marble quarries ; we must ascend the Pentelicon. 

A herdsman was there in his Greek woolen dress ; he 
leaned on his long staff, and looked down into the gray val- 
ley, where a large tumulus stood in wildest solitude: the sea 
and the mountains of Eubcea bounded the horizon. A bluish 
smoke curled up from a cabin below, which could scarcely be 
perceived. The tumulus, which appeared like a small island 
amongst reeds, has a fame as great as any in the world : 
and whose is this grave ? We name the plain, and the tumulus 
is known. It is the plain of Marathon. 



XV. 

friendship's covenant. 

A NOVEL. 

We have lately accomplished a little journey, and already 
begin to desire a greater one. Where to ? To Sparta, to My- 
cenae, to Delphi ! There are hundreds of places that the heart 
throbs with a desire to visit. It must be on horseback up 
mountain paths ; away over copse and bush j the single travel- 
ler goes forth like a whole caravan. He rides before with his 
agojal, a pack-horse bears his portmanteau, tent, and provision, 
few gensdarmes follow after for his protection. No inn with 
well-made bed awaits him after the fatiguing day's journey ; 
the tent is often his roof in the wild and extended solitude of 
nature ; the agojal cooks a pilaf l for his evening meal. Thou- 
sands of gnats buzz about the little tent ; it is a miserable 
night, and to-morrow the road lies over rapid and swollen rivers. 
Sit fast on thy horse, and take care thou art not carried away. 
1 A pilaf is composed of poultry, rice, and curry. 



FRIENDSHIP'S COVENANT. 1 99 

What reward is there for these toils ? The greatest ! the 
richest ! Nature reveals herself here in all her greatness ; 
every spot is historical ; the eye and the mind alike are fully 
gratified. The poet can sing of it ; the painter portray it in 
richest beauty ; but the odor of reality, which eternally forces 
its way, and rests in the thoughts of the spectator, they have 
not the power to represent. 

I have endeavored to depict in many small sketches one 
little extent of country — Athens and its environs ; and yet 
how colorless is the picture ! How poorly does it indicate 
Greece, that sorrowing genius of beauty, whose greatness and 
affliction the stranger never forgets ! 

The solitary herdsman on the rock, by a simple story of one 
of the events of his life, might perhaps, open thy eyes to a 
view of the land of the East, by a few traits, better than I 
with my pictures. 

Then let him speak, says my Muse. Well, the herdsman on 
the mountain there shall tell us about a custom, a fine and 
peculiar custom : it is ( * Friendship's Covenant." 

" Our house was stuck together with clay, but the door- 
posts were fluted marble columns, found where the house was 
built. The roof descended almost to the ground ; it was dark, 
brown, and ugly ; but when it was built the blooming oleander, 
and the fresh laurel branches were brought from behind the 
mountain. It was narrow and confined about our house ; the 
rocks stood steep upward, and presented a dark, bare color. 
Clouds often hung on the top of them, like living forms clad 
in white. I never heard a song-bird here ; the men never 
danced here to the tones of the Dagpipe ; but the place was 
sacred from the times of old ; the name itself reminds us 
thereof — it is called Delphi ! 

" The dark, sombre mountains lay covered with snow ; the 
topmost, which shone longest in the red evening sun, was 
Parnassus. The brook near our house streamed down from 
thence, and was also once holy. Now the ass muddies it with 
his feet ; yet the stream runs strong, and again becomes clear. 
How well I remember every spot and its deep, holy solitude ! 
The fire was kindled in the middle of the cabin, and, when 
the hot ashes lay high and glowing, the bread was baked in 



200 A POETS BAZAAR. 

them. When the snow lay, around our hut, so that it was al- 
most hidden, my mother then seemed happiest ; she then held 
my hand between her hands, kissed my brow, and sang the 
songs she at other times never sang ; for the Turks, our mas- 
ters, liked them not ; and she sang : ' An old stag sat in the 
low pine wood, on Olympus's top ; its eyes were heavy with 
tears ; yes, it wept red, green, and pale-blue tears, and a roe- 
buck came past ! " What ails thee, that thou weepest thus ? 
even red, green, and pale-blue tears?" — "The Turk has 
come into our town ; he has wild dogs for his sport, a mighty 
pack ! " — " I will chase them over the islands," said the young 
roebuck. * I will drive them over the islands into the deep 
sea ! " but before the evening came on, the roebuck was 
killed ; and before night came, the stag was hunted and dead ! ' 

" And when my mother sang thus, her eyes became wet, 
and there sat a tear in the long eyelashes ; but she hid it, and 
turned our black bread in the ashes. Then I clinched my 
hand, and said, ' We will slay the Turk ! ' but she repeated 
the song : f " I will chase them over the islands into the deep 
sea ! " but before evening came on, the roebuck was killed, and 
before night came, the stag was hunted and dead ! ' 

We had been alone in our solitary cabin for several days and 
nights, when my father came home. I knew he brought me 
mussel-shells from the Bay of Lepanto, or some such thing as 
a sharp and shining knife. He brought us a child that time ; 
a little naked girl, whom he carried under his sheepskin cloak. 
She was wrapped in a skin, and all that she had when she was 
loosened from it in my mothe^ lap, were three silver coins fas- 
tened in her black hair. Ancrmy father told us about the Turks 
who had killed the child's parents. He told us so much that 
I dreamt about it the whole night. My father himself was 
wounded, and my mother bandaged his arm, for the wound was 
deep. The thick sheepskin cloak was frozen stiff with blood. 

" The little girl was to be my sister. She was so beautiful, 
so transparently clear ! My mother's eyes were not milder 
than hers ! Anastasia, as she was called, should be my sister ; 
for her father was married to my father ; married after an old 
custom which we still retain. They had, in their youth, con- 
tracted brotherhood together, and chosen the handsomest and 



FRIENDSHIP'S COVENANT. 201 

most virtuous girl in the neighborhood to join their hands in 
the covenant of friendship. I heard often about this rare and 
beautiful custom. 

" The little girl was now my sister ; she sat on my lap. I 
brought her flowers, and feathers from the birds of the rock ; we 
drank together the waters of Parnassus : we slept, face to face, 
under the cabin's laurel-covered roof, whilst my mother still 
sang, for many a winter, of the red, the green, and the pale-blue 
tears. But 1 could not yet understand that it was my own peo- 
ple, whose thousand fold sorrows were reflected in these tears. 

" One day there came three Franks, dressed differently 
from us ; they had their beds and tents on horses ; and more 
than twenty Turks, all with sabres and muskets, accompanied 
them, for they were the Pasha's friends, and had letters from 
him. They only came to see our mountains ; to ascend Par- 
nassus, in snow and clouds, and survey the dark, steep, and 
singular rocks around our hut. 

" There was not room for them in the cabin, nor did they 
like the smoke which passed under the ceiling, and out of the 
low doorway. They erected their tents on the narrow place 
outside our hut. They roasted lambs and birds, and drank 
sweet, strong wine, but the Turks durst not drink of it. 

" When they departed, I followed them part of the way, 
and my little sister Anastasia hung on my back, sewed up in 
a goat skin. One of the Franks placed me against a rock, 
and drew me and her, quite like nature. As we appeared on 
the paper, we looked like one single being. I had never 
thought of it, but Anastasia and I were as one. She always 
lay on my lap or hung on my back ; and if I dreamed, she was 
in my dreams. 

" Two nights afterward other people came to our hut. 
They were armed with knives and guns. They were Albani- 
ans ; brave men, as my mother said. They remained there 
but a short time. My sister Anastasia sat on the lap of one. 
When he was gone she had two, and not three silver coins 
in her hair. They rolled tobacco up in strips of paper and 
smoked it, and the eldest spoke of the road they should take, 
and was uncertain about it : ' If I spit upward,' said he, ' it 
will fall in my face ; if I spit downward, it will fall on my 



202 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

beard ! But a way must be chosen ! ' They went, and my 
father accompanied them. Shortly after we heard shots fired 
in rapid succession : then there came a party of soldiers to 
our hut ; they took my mother, me, and Anastasia. They 
said the robbers had taken refuge with us ; my father had 
accompanied them, and therefore we must away. I saw the 
dead bodies of the robbers ; I saw my father's corpse, and I 
wept till I fell asleep. When I awoke, we were in prison ; 
but the chamber was not more wretched than that in our own 
hut ; and I got onions and resinous wine, which they poured 
out of the tarred bag ; but we were no better off at home. 

" How long we were imprisoned I know not ; but many 
days and nights passed away. When we were set at liberty 
it was our holy Easter festival, and I bore Anastasia on my 
back, for my mother was ill ; she could walk but slowly, and 
it was long before we reached the Bay of Lepanto. 

" We entered a church which glittered with images on the 
golden ground ; they were angels ! O, so beautiful ! But I 
thought that our little Anastasia was just as pretty. In the 
middle of the floor stood a coffin, filled with roses ; it was the 
Lord Christ, said my mother, who lay there like beautiful 
flowers ! And the priest proclaimed : ' Christ is risen ! ' 

" All the people kissed each other. Every one held a 
lighted candle in his hand. I, myself, got one, and little Anas- 
tasia one. The bagpipes sounded, the men danced hand in 
hand from the church, outside of which the women roasted 
Easter lambs. We were invited to eat. I sat by the fire, — a 
a boy, older than myself, threw his arms around my neck, 
kissed me, and said : ' Christ is risen ! ' So it was that 
Aphtanides and I met for the first time. 

" My mother could make fishing nets ; that was work by 
which she gained much at the bay, and we remained for a long 
time by the sea, — the delightful sea, which tasted like tears, 
and in its color reminded us of the weeping stag's ; some- 
times it was red, then green, and then blue again. 

" Aphtanides knew how to steer a boat ; and I sat with my 
little Anastasia in the boat, which floated on the water as a 
cloud sails in the air. When the sun went down, the mountains 
became more dark-blue, the one range peeped over the other, 



FRIENDSHIP'S COVENANT. 



203 



and in the distance stood Parnassus, with its snowy-covered 
top, shining like glowing iron in the evening sun. It appeared 
as if the light came from within, for it shone so long in the 
blue glittering air after the sun had gone down. The white 
sea-birds struck the water's surface with their wings, or else it 
was as still as at Delphi amongst the black rocks. I lay on my 
back in the boat ; Anastasia sat on my breast, and the stars 
above us shone still brighter than the lamps in our church. 
They were the same stars and they hung quite in the same 
place over me as when I sat outside our cabin at Delphi. I at 
last thought that I was still there ; then there was a splashing 
in the water, and the boat rocked. I screamed aloud, for Anas- 
tasia had fallen into the water ; but Aphtanides was just as 
quick as I, and he soon handed her to me ! We took her 
clothes off, wrung the water out, and then dressed her again. 
Aphtanides did the same for himself; and we remained on 
the sea until their clothes were dry again, and no one knew 
the fright we had had for my little foster-sister, in whose life 
Aphtanides had now a part. 

" It was summer. The sun burnt so hot that the leaf-trees 
withered. I thought of our cool mountains, and of the fresh 
water there ; my mother also longed for them, and one even- 
ing we wandered back again. How still and silent all things 
were ! We went over the high thyme, which still spread its 
scent around, though the sun had dried its leaves. Not a 
herdsman did we meet, not a cabin did we pass ; all was still 
and solitary j the shooting-star alone said that there was life 
above in heaven. I know not if it was the clear blue air it- 
self that shed a light, or was it the star's rays ? we saw the 
outlines of all the mountains so distinctly. My mother made 
a fire, and roasted the onions she had brought with her ; and 
I and my little sister slept in the thyme without fear of the 
horrid smidraki, 1 from whose throat the flames pour forth ; 
and much less did we fear the wolf and jackal : my mother 
sat with us, and that I thought was enough. 

" We reached our old home, but the hut was a heap of rub- 
bish, and a new one must be built. A few women assisted my 

1 Greek superstition creates this monster from the uncut stomach of the 
slaughtered sheep, which is cast into the fields. 



204 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

mother, and in a few days the walls were built up, and a new 
roof of oleander placed over them. 

" My mother plaited holsters of bark and skin for bottles. 
I looked after the priest's 1 little herd. Anastasia and the 
small tortoises were my playmates. 

" One day we had a visit from our dear Aphtanides, who, as 
he said, longed so much to see us ; and he stayed two whole 
days with us. 

" After a month had passed he came again, and told us that 
he was going with a ship to Patras and Corfu : he could not go 
without bidding us farewell, and he brought a large fish with 
him for my mother. He knew how to tell so much, not alone 
about the fishermen down by the Bay of Lepanto, but about 
kings and heroes who had once reigned in Greece, as the 
Turks do now. 

" I have seen the rose-tree begin to bud, and in days and 
weeks it has become a full-blown flower ; it became so be- 
fore I began to think about it. How large, beautiful, and 
blushing it was. It was thus also with Anastasia. She was a 
charming, full-grown girl ; I a strong lad. The wolves' skins 
on my mother's and Anastasia's bed I had myself flayed from 
the animals that fell under my gun. 

Years had passed, when one evening Aphtanides came. He 
was slender as a reed, but strong and brown. He kissed us 
all, and told us about the great sea, of Malta's fortresses, and 
of Egypt's strange burial-places ; it sounded so strangely — 
like one of the priest's legends. I looked up to him with a 
sort of reverence. 

" ' How much you know,' said I ; ' how well you can relate 
things.' 

" ' Yet,' said he, ' you once told me the prettiest of all stories ; 
you have told me what has never gone out of my thoughts, 
the beautiful old custom of the covenant of friendship. It 
is a custom that I have a great desire to follow. Brother, let 
us two, as thine and Anastasia's father did, go to the church ; 
the handsomest and most innocent girl is Anastasia, our sister ; 
she shall bind us together. None have nobler customs than 
we Greeks.' 

1 A peasant who can read is often the priest, and is called " Most Holy 
Sir." The common people kiss the ground when they meet him. 



FRIENDSHIP'S COVENANT. 20j 

u Anastasia grew red as the fresh rose-leaf, and my mother 
kissed Aphtanides. 

" An hour's walk from our hut, there, where the rocks bear 
mould, and a few trees cast their shade, lay the little church ; 
a silver lamp hung before the altar. 

" I had my best clothes on ; the white fostanelles folded 
richly down over the hips ; the red jacket sat tight and narrow ; 
there was silver in the tassel on my fez, and in my belt were 
knife and pistols. Aphtanides had on his blue dress, such as 
the Greek sailors wear. A silver plate with an image of the 
Virgin hung on his breast, and his sash was as valuable as 
those which only the rich nobles wear. Every one saw that 
we two were about to celebrate a festival. We went into the 
little solitary church, where the evening sun shone through the 
doorway on the burning lamps and the variegated images on 
a golden ground. We knelt on the steps of the altar, and 
Anastasia placed herself before us. A long white frock hung 
loose and light around her beautiful limbs ; her white neck 
and bosom were covered with a broad chain of old and new 
coins, which formed a whole collar ; her black hair was laid 
on the top of her head in one single curl, held by a little cap 
of gold and silver coins, found in the old temples. No Greek 
girl had finer ornaments. Her face beamed ; her eyes re- 
sembled two stars. 

" We all three said our prayers in silence, and she asked 
us : ' Will you be friends in life and death ? We answered : 
' Yes.' ' Will you each, whatever may happen, remember — 
My brother is a part of me, my secrets are his secrets, 
my happiness or fortune is his ! Sacrifice, endurance every- 
thing I hold for my own soul as for him ? ' and we repeated 
our ' Yes ; ' and she placed our hands in each other, kissed us 
on the forehead, and we again prayed silently. The priest 
then stepped forward from the door of the altar, blessed us all 
three, and a song from the other most holy men sounded from 
behind the altar wall. The eternal covenant of friendship was 
concluded. When we rose, I saw my mother by the church 
door weeping deeply and inwardly. 

"What mirth there was in our little hut and by the fountains 
of Delphi! The evening before Aphtanides was to depart, 



206 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

he and I sat thoughtfully on the slope of the cliff ; his arm 
was around my waist, mine around his neck j we spoke of the 
necessities and distress of Greece, of men who could be de- 
pended on. Each thought in our minds was clear to us both : 
then I seized his hand : — 

" ' One thing yet thou shalt know ; one that, until this hour, 
only God and I know ! All my soul is love ; it is a love 
stronger than that for my mother and for thee.' 

" ' And whom dost thou love ? ' asked Aphtanides, and he 
grew red in the face and neck. 

" ' I love Anastasia,' said I. His hand trembled violently 
in mine, and he became pale as a corpse. I saw it ; I under- 
stood it ; and I believe my hand also trembled. I bent toward 
him, kissed his brow, and whispered, ' I have never told her 
of it : perhaps she does not love me ! Brother, remember I 
saw her daily ; she has grown up by my side, grown into my 
soul ! ' 

" ' And thine she shall be ! ' said he. ' Thine — I cannot 
lie to thee, nor will I do so ! I also love her ! But to-morrow 
I depart ; we shall see each other again in a year — then you 
will be married. Is it not so? I have some money; it is 
thine ! Thou must take it ; thou shalt take it ! ' We wan- 
dered silently over the rock : it was late in the evening when 
we stood in my mother's cabin. 

" Anastasia held the lamp toward us when we entered ; my 
mother was not there. Anastasia looked so strangely sorrow- 
ful at Aphtanides ! 

" ' To-morrow thou wilt leave us ! ' said she : ' how it grieves 
me!' 

" ' Grieves thee ! ' said he ; and I thought there was pain 
in the words, great as my own. I could not speak, but he 
took her hand and said, 'Our brother there loves thee ; is he 
dear to thee ? In his silence is his love ! ' And Anastasia 
trembled, and burst into tears ; then I saw but her, thought 
only of her. I flung my arm around her waist, and said, 
■ Yes, I love thee ! ' 

" She then pressed her lips to mine ; her hand rested on 
my neck ; but the lamp had fallen on the floor j and it was 
dark around us, as in poor dear Aphtanides' heart. He arose 



DEPARTURE FROM GREECE. 207 

before daylight, kissed us all in farewell, and departed. He 
had given my mother all his money for us. Anastasia was 
my bride, and a few days afterward my wife ! " 



XVI. 

DEPARTURE FROM GREECE. 

I left Athens in the middle of the forenoon and drove to 
Piraeus, although the French steamer Eurotas, in which I had 
taken my passage, started toward evening. Thus time re- 
mained for a short ramble, and that was to the grave of 
Themistocles, which I had once before visited. 

From Piraeus there is a very small peninsula, which bounds 
the eastern side of the bay ; near it is the new quarantine, 
and higher up, as I mentioned before, is a windmill. The 
whole ground is a species of travertines, and round about 
we see the remains of the old walls. Acanthus, cypress 
bushes, poor grass, and mixed red flowers grow here, where a 
few sheep graze, and a half-wild dog, with a ferocious aspect 
and terrible howling, darts toward every stranger. I went 
round the peninsula from the east to the west side. 

Close by the shore, toward the Bay of Piraeus, there stands 
a poor walled-up monument, exactly like a square chimney, 
on which is placed a less, and on that, another of still smaller 
dimensions ; in this last one there is a square marble tablet 
as large as a common sheet of paper, on which is inscribed, — 

fiAEKEITAI 
ONAYAPX02 
ANAPEA2. MIA 

1838. 

It is the monument that was placed over Miaulis ; but his 
bones are said to have been secretly carried away by his fam- 
ily. Close by the hero's grave is a lesser one, but there is no 
intimation of its occupant — a small wooden cross without 
color or inscription is raised. On the other side of the island, 



208 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

toward the Bay of Phalereus, are several overthrown columns, 
hewn out of the yellow foundations of the rock, and between 
these columns are two open graves quite filled with sea water : 

— one wave rushed in after the other. This spot, straight 
before the Bay of Salamis, is pointed out as the grave of 
Themistocles. The two extreme points of this little penin- 
sula thus bear an ancient and a modern hero's grave, — The- 
mistocles and Miaulis! 1 These are two historical light- 
houses, erected here for the stranger who lands in Piraeus, to 
engage his thoughts. 

The waves broke in a white foam in the larger bay to the 
right — the Bay of Phalereus, from whence Theseus sailed 
forth to combat against the Minotaur. Here Menelaus em- 
barked — over these waters, and surrounded by these moun- 
tains which, still unchanged, greeted me. They went to 
Ilium ! the same way lay spread before me ; I should soon see 
the same coasts, the plain of Troy, and Mount Ida, which 
adorns itself as aforetime, with flowers and verdure ; wraps 
itself in clouds ; covers itself with snow, and then looks 
sorrowfully through the veil on the tumulus of Achilles, the 
only monument of mighty Ilium — and that great siege un- 
dertaken for a woman ! How much that was and is great, 
new, and unknown, would there not be opened to me ! And 
yet I was deeply grieved to leave Greece, where all things 
raised my thoughts from the trifles of every- day life, and 
where every bitterness from home was erased from my soul. 

I met most of my friends from Athens in Piraeus ; the priest 
Liith had his children with him. They stretched out their 
little hands after me ; the Greek servant seized my hand, nod- 
ding and smiling ; Ross was the last Dane I saw on board 

— he pressed me to his heart. It was a painful moment to 
me. 

" I shall come again to Greece ! " said I, as if to comfort 
myself. God grant they may be prophetic words. 

I was now alone ; the handkerchiefs of the ladies waved 
from the shore ; every farewell was ended ; when a letter of 
introduction was brought me from Prokesch-Osten to Barron 

1 Professor Ross supposes that Themistocles was buried on the oppo- 
site side of the Bay of Piraeus, and not here. 



DEPARTURE FROM GREECE. 209 

Sturmer, Austrian Internuncio at Constantinople. Prokesch 
himself had that morning set out for Thebes. His gifted 
and amiable lady wrote a few words of farewell to me, and 
with them was a copy of Prokesch's charming poem " Gebet 
in der Wiiste." x Herr Sonnenleitner, Attache to the Austrian 
Embassy in Greece, was the bearer. He is a young man 
with a poetic mind, and personally amiable ; he was amongst 
the many Germans who attached themselves to me in Athens. 
I have often thought of him, and I here again send him my 
greeting. 

When he was gone, I was among Greeks, Armenians, and 
Asiatic Jews, the ship's crew excepted. We were to sail at 
sunset. I was affected ; the sea ran strong ; it was my wish; 
that I might be able to sleep during the whole voyage to 
Syra, as I had before done from Syra to Piraeus. I laid 
clown in my hammock and slept. I was awakened by the- 
noise of the anchor cable, and started up : there was not the 
least movement in the sea. I threw my cloak around me,, 
and ran up on deck to see the town of Syra ; but I saw — 
Piraeus, the mountains Hymettus, and Parnassus. It was now 
morning, at which time we were to start. The captain had 
waited for royal dispatches, and they had only just come. It 
was four o'clock. 

We sailed in pretty shallow water : the sun arose, and shone 
every hour with greater power. One large umbrella after 
another was put up ; the whole company formed the most 
picturesque groups. A Greek woman sat on the gun-carriage- 
nursing her little child : an elder girl, poor, but beautiful and 
clean, stood leaning against the cannon. The men smoked' 
their paper cigars, and admired an Arabian's Damascus blade. 
They asked me if I was a Bavarian, and when I said I was a; 
Dane, I was again greeted as an American. 

The marble columns of the ruins of Sunium's temple on> 
Cape Colonna stood forth with a shining whiteness in the 
warm sunshine. Sea-birds fluttered around on the gray des- 
ert coast. 

1 This poem, which is one of Prokesch-Osten's most celebrated per- 
formances, is to be found in Morgenl'dndische Gedichte, and is set to music 
by several composers. 



2IO A POET'S BAZAAR. 

Zea lay stretched out before us, and we soon saw Syra 
with its bare, rocky front. We had to sail round the island 
before the harbor opened to us. I had been here before : here 
at least I was no stranger. 

The steamer by which I was to sail for Constantinople had 
not yet arrived : I therefore walked into the Hotel della 
Grecia, and not an hour afterward the host told me that there 
were some soldiers who had come to take me to the Council 
hall \ the magistrate must speak with me ! What could 
he want? I was accompanied by two halberdiers, and was 
brought into a dark, ugly building, where a Greek magistrate 
asked me, in an austere tone, and in bad Italian, if I had a 
passport ? I showed it to him — he read and re-read it ; but 
the passport granted in Copenhagen was written in French 
and in Danish, and neither of these languages did he under- 
stand. 

" There is a German whom we must arrest and send back 
to Athens ! " said the man. Then turning to me, " I do not 
understand your passport : but I believe you are a German, 
and the very person we are looking after ; you must therefore 
return to Athens ! " 

I endeavored to explain to him the contents of my pass- 
port ; but he would not understand me. 

" Well, then," said I, and took out a letter of introduc- 
tion I had received in Athens to the Greek minister in Con- 
stantinople, Chrystides, who had previously been governor of 
Syra, and to whom I had been most kindly commended, 
" please to read who lam!" The man took the letter, and 
he soon became politeness itself; made many excuses, and 
they accompanied me, with great civility, to the hotel, where I 
again met the Russian who had been plundered on the voyage 
from Constantinople, still as angry as before, and cursing the 
East and all writers who excited the desire of travel in credu- 
lous people like himself. 



THE EAST. 
I. 

A STORM IN THE ARCHIPELAGO. 

I ROWED out in the early morning from the harbor of 
Syros to the French war-steamer, R/iamses, which came 
from Marseilles, and had had a terribly stormy voyage over 
the Mediterranean. The storm had not yet ceased. The 
wind whistled in the shrouds, and the billows lashed the 
sides of the vessel. 

When I reached the vessel, there was a screaming and 
shouting of Greek females, Jews and Jewesses, who were to go 
by it to Smyrna. Before they were permitted to go on board 
every one of them was obliged to show his or her ticket ; but 
it was either knotted up in a handkerchief, or given to a rela- 
tive in another boat, so that they were in dreadful perplexity ; 
and the sailor who stood guard by the gangway raised his 
halberd against every one that did not directly show his ticket. 
A stout Greek female, in particular, bawled most horribly. 

The poor, miserable deck-passengers were driven to a place 
set apart for them on the vessel ; and a watch was kept over 
them. The discipline appeared very strict on board the 
Rhamses} 

We sailed directly in under the coast of Tenos, which ap- 
peared inhabited and fruitful. One village lay close to the 
other. One of them was of considerable size, with a pretty 
church. Round about were vineyards and cultivated fields. 
Three chains of mountains arose one behind the other. We 
passed so near to the rocky walls that I thought I felt the 
breakers against the ship. The sea ran stronger and stronger ; 

1 In Athens I only heard two French steamers praised as being pleas- 
ant for all passengers ; and they were the two I had previously sailed 
with, Leonidas and Lycurgus. 



212 A POETS BAZAAR. 

it was as if the storm darted out of the mountains on Tenos. 
Already the waves sprang on the ship's sides ; the poor deck- 
passengers were obliged to creep up toward the chimney ; 
by degrees they approached nearer and nearer to the flue. 
No one prevented them now ; every sailor had something else 
to do. The sails were hoisted, but they were hauled down 
again directly : the boatswain's whistle sounded ; and there 
was a shouting, a noise, a sea-sickness, a wailing that every 
moment increased. I continued for some time on deck, 
though the ship several times darted down the long and large 
billows like a sledge on a Russian mountain. 

The Greek women threw their arms about each other's 
necks and howled ; the children lay as if half dead along the 
deck ; and the sea washed over the whole ship, so that every 
one was soaked with the salt-water. All this time the sea- 
gulls flew in flocks around us ; they looked like the winged 
hour-glass of invisible death : every plank in the ship creaked ; 
we rushed, as it were, from the stars into the deep, and again 
up to the stars. 

At length, I got into my hammock. Everything rattled ; 
everything creaked. I heard the boatswain's whistle, the 
shutters that were closed, the bars that broke, the sea that 
struck against the ship, so that it stopped, and all its timbers 
groaned. There was one near to me who called on the Ma- 
donna and all the saints ! Another swore ! I felt certain that 
we must perish : and, when I thought more steadfastly of ap- 
proaching fate, I felt myself easier. My thoughts were with 
all my dear friends in Denmark. " How much is there not 
done for me, and how little I have done ! " This was the 
sorrow that pressed on my heart ! I thought of my friends. 
" God, do thou bless and comfort them ! " was my silent prayer. 
" Let me work out in another world what I did not effect here ! 
All that they valued in me was thine ! Thou has given me 
all ! Thy will be done ! " and I closed my eyes ! The storm 
raged over the sea ; the ship quivered like a sparrow in a 
whirlwind j but I slept — slept from bodily exhaustion, and at 
a good angel's intercession. 

When I awoke, I certainly heard the beating of the waves 
against the vessel ; but the ship itself glided quietly as a 



SMYRNA. 



213 



sailing swan. We were under lee — we were in the Bay 
of Smyrna ; and I, as well as the Greek women, had assuredly 
expected to awake in another world ; and so in a certain sense 
I did. I stood on deck, and before me lay another world 
— the coast of Asia. 



II. 

SMYRNA. 

The sea, in the deep, extensive bay of Smyrna, appeared 
of a green-yellow, like a quarantine flag. The coasts of Asia 
reminded me of Sicily's ; but they were far more fruitful : 
such fertility I have never known ; the sun burned glowing 
hot ! I saw that part of the world of which Egypt's Moses 
was also vouchsafed a sight — that part of the world where 
Christ was born, taught, and suffered. I saw the coasts from 
whence Homer's songs were sent forth over the world. The 
East, the home of adventure, was here before me ; and I was 
now about to set my foot upon its soil. 

We passed a fort. The whole coast to the right was covered 
with rich olive woods, in the middle of which was a large vil- 
lage, with red-brown houses, blooming fruit-trees, and a fresh 
green sward. A natural park, with leaf-trees and tall cypresses, 
joined the olive woods. Opposite us lay Smyrna. 

Most of the houses are brown, the roofs red and pointed, as 
in the North. Cypresses were planted at almost every house, 
and they were as high as our poplars, in an almost innumera- 
ble quantity. Slender, white minarets, the first I had ever 
seen, arose above the tall, dark cypresses. In the eastern 
quarter of the city, down toward the bay, where the foreign 
consuls live, the flags of all nations waved on lofty poles. A 
green mountain, with a little grove of cypresses rose behind 
the city, and on its summit were the ruins of a dilapidated for- 
tress. 

The harbor was filled with vessels : there lay several steam- 
ers, a Turkish one amongst the rest; the red flag with the 
half-moon waved at the top. A boat with veiled Turkish fe- 
males rowed thither : these concealed, white figures reminded 
me of the Roman funeral processions. 



214 A P0ETS BAZAAR. 

We cast anchor, and I went on shore. 

It was then destined, at my birth, that I should tread on 
Asia's shore. My thoughts were filled with great remem- 
brances, and the first thing here that my eye lighted upon 
was a French theatrical affiche, 

A French company was here ; they performed that evening 
" La Reine de seize ans," and " Les premiers Amours." Queen 
Christina of Sweden was fond of rambling ; but she certainly 
never thought of showing herself, or of being " shown up " in a 
theatre in Asia, before Greeks and Turks. 

I went into the nearest street, which would be called a lane 
with us ; a number of small alleys run out of this street. The 
neighbor on one side could easily take a pinch out of his 
friend's box on the other, from his window. The houses are 
of wood and brick, or entirely of planks. None of them are 
very high, and in the chief street most of the ground-floors 
are open shops, with all sorts of wares. This street runs 
through the whole town, and terminates in the higher situated 
portion by the bazaar. 

They say that, to avoid the plague, we must be careful not 
to come in contact with any one ; but it is an impossibility 
to do otherwise : if we have occasion, or feel a desire to go 
through the principal street of Smyrna, it is too narrow, and 
the crowd is too great. I met vast numbers of women, wrapped 
in long muslin veils, so that only the tip of the nose and the 
dark eyes were to be seen. There came Armenians in long 
blue and black talarez, or gaberdines, with large black hats, 
in the form of an inverted cooking-pot, on their bare, shaven 
heads ; smartly dressed Greeks, and dirty Jews, and majestic 
looking Turks, who had their pipes borne before them by a 
lad. A sort of calash, with variegated curtains, was placed 
on the hump of a camel, and from this a veiled female head 
peeped out. A Bedouin, with bare legs, and head almost hid 
in his white burnoose, strode with hasty steps, like a disguised 
lion of the desert, through the crowd. I met a half-naked, 
black boy driving two ostriches before him with a stick. 
Each of them looked like a worn-out trunk on stilts, to which 
was fastened a dirty swan's neck. They were two ugly crea- 
tures, but they produced an effect in the picture. A scent of 



A ROSE FROM HOMER'S GRAVE. 



215 



musk and myrrh streamed out of several of the shops ; others 
were filled with fruit — Pomona's horn of plenty is not licher ! 
Clothes from three parts of the world made the most varied 
show here. All tongues jangle amongst each other —Arabian, 
Turkish, Greek, Italian ; it would look like a register, were I 
to enumerate them all. 

My companion pointed to a gentleman in the midst of the 
crowd in a Frankish dress. " That is the Danish Consul, 
Herr Jongh," said he. I presented myself to him as a Dane, 
and we were soon walking arm in arm through the long street. 
Thus, by accident, I met at once the very person in Smyrna, 
to whom, as a Dane, I could best apply. Herr Jongh, how- 
ever, was that very hour going to Constantinople in one of 
the Turkish steamers, the swiftness of which he praised much ; 
we should again meet in Pera. 

At a remote part of the town, where the high-road seemed 
to lead into the interior of the country, was a Turkish khan. 
Large bolsters and rush mats lay before it, and on these were 
stretched a number of Turks in variegated caftan and turban, 
smoking their pipes. Large carriages, similar to those we 
in Denmark call basket wagons, were drawn by white oxen, 
hung round with metal plates, red cords, and tassels. One 
carriage was quite filled with veiled females, who sat in a heap 
in the bottom of the wagon, which was driven by a stout old 
Turk. They were certainly pretty. Yes, behind many a 
grating to each street, there was, surely, a small collection of 
houris ; but they were, as the Turkish poet sings, " Hidden 
like rubies in the casket, like attar of roses in the bottle, and 
like the parrot in the cage ! " Even the negress concealed 
that " Night had poured itself into her limbs," and that " the 
hair is a darkness which rests on darkness ! * 



III. 

A ROSE FROM HOMER'S GRAVE. 

The nightingale's love for the rose is celebrated in all ori- 
ental songs. The winged singer brings a serenade to his odor- 
ous flower in the silent, starry night. 



2(6 A FOE T'S BAZAAR. 

I saw a blooming hedge of roses not far from Smyrna, under 
the tall plantains where the merchant drives his loaded camels, 
proudly stretching their long necks, and treading clumsily on 
the ground, which is holy ; the wild doves flew amongst the 
high branches of the trees, and the dove's wings shone, as a 
ray of sunlight glided over them, so that the wings looked like 
mother-of-pearl. 

On the rose-hedge one flower was the first amongst them 
all, and to this the nightingale sang his sorrowful love-tale. 
But the rose was silent. Not a dew-drop lay, like the tear of 
pity, on its leaves ; it was bent with its stem over some large 
stones. 

" Here rests the world's greatest poet ! " said the rose : " I 
will shed my perfume over his grave ! I will strew my leaves 
on it when the storm tears them off! The Iliad's singer 
became earth in this earth in which I germinated, and from 
whence I sprang ! I, a rose from Homer's grave, am too holy 
to bloom for the poor nightingale ! " 

And the nightingale sang himself to death. The camel 
driver came with his loaded camels, and his black slaves. His 
little boy found the dead bird. He buried the little warbler in 
great Homer's grave, and the rose shivered in the blast. The 
evening came, the rose folded its leaves closer, and dreamt 
that there was a beautiful sunlit day. A crowd of strange 
men came ; they were Franks. They had made a pilgrimage 
to Homer's grave. Amongst the strangers was a poet from 
the North, from the home of mists and the Northern Lights. 
He broke the rose off its stem, pressed it fast in a book, and 
took it with him to another quarter of the globe, to his distant 
father-land. And the rose withered with grief, and lay in the 
narrow book which he opened in his home, saying : " Here is 
a rose from Homer's grave ! " 

Yes, that is what the flower dreamed, and it awoke and 
trembled in the wind. A dew-drop fell from its leaves on the 
songster's grave. And the sun arose, and the flower was more 
beautiful than before. The day was warm ; the rose was in 
its own warm Asia. Then footsteps were heard ; there came 
strange Franks, as the rose had seen them in its dream, and 
amongst the strangers was a poet from the North. He broke 



A LITTLE BIRD HAS SUNG ABOUT IT 2 I 7 

the rose off, pressed a kiss on its fresh lips, and took it with 
him to the home of mists and the Northern Lights. 

The remains of the flower now rests, like a mummy, in his 
"Iliad" ; and as in its dream, it hears him open the book and 
say : " Here is a rose from Homer's grave ! " 



IV. 

A LITTLE BIRD HAS SUNG ABOUT IT. 

We sail again out of Smyrna's bay, past the fragrant green 
wood, past the eternal monuments. Fresh passengers have 
come on board. Who is that poor Greek sitting there abaft, 
on the rusty iron anchor-cable ? He is young and handsome, 
but poorly clad. He comes from no great distance — his 
wretched clay cabin stands where the most celebrated temple 
once stood proudly aloft, glittering with gold and ivory. He 
is a herdsman from Ephesus. Does he know the great me- 
mentoes that are associated with his home, with that spot 
where he bakes his black bread between stones in the hot 
ashes ? His father has told him a story, the blocks of marble 
in the grass have witnessed its truth, and a little bird has 
sung about it. 

New Phocea lies under the mountain, between the green 
hills. Nod, ye green branches, nod to our ship ; it comes 
from France, from Marseilles j the city that was founded by 
Phocea's children. Ye are too young, ye green branches, to 
know anything about it ; but yet you know it ; a little bird 
has sung about it ! 

Thou stormy sea, why dost thou swell so? The sky is 
cloudless, the sun sinks in ruddy grandeur ! Asia's treble 
mountain chain breathes greatness and peace ! Rest, rest 
thou stormy sea, and dream of old remembrances ! 

The new moon in the firmament seems like a thin boat of 
gold bearing a glass ball. It hangs by an invisible thread 
from the glittering evening star, whose ray points down to- 
ward Mytilene. What an evening ! Yet in the North I had 
imagined such a one ; a little bird has sung about it ! 



2 r8 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

It is night : the billows strike against the ship, which con- 
tinues its unchanging course. We are now under lee ; but 
where? Who can sleep under the far-famed coasts fraught 
with reminiscences ? We stand on the deck. The stars oi 
night light up Tenedos and the coast of Asia. A row of 
windmills stand high aloft, like playthings ; the sails turn 
round; a plain opens before us from the sea to the moun- 
tains. The helmsman points to a dark spot, a gigantic hill 
on the plain, and says : " Achilles ! " Thou outstretched, 
solitary heath, with poor huts and bush-grown grave, dost 
thou know thy fame ? No, thou art too old ! Thou hast for- 
gotten thy great mementoes, — Hector and Achilles, Ulysses 
and Agamemnon ! Plain beneath Ida whereon stood Troy, 
thou no longer knowest thyself! The stranger asks thee about 
thy memories, and thou answerest, " I believe so ! The stars 
know it ! The stars know where Ilium stood ; where Athena 
saved the hero ! I do not remember it ! but I have heard it ; 
a little bird has sung about it ! " 



THE DARDANELLES AND THE SEA OF MARMORA. 

We sailed into, the Dardanelles, the Hellespont of the 
ancients, early in the morning. On the European side lay a 
town which seemed to have but one temple for God ; but 
several for the stomach ; here stood one minaret and five 
windmills. Close to the town was a pretty, nay, as it seemed, 
a handsome fortress ; on the Asiatic side was a similar one ; 
the distance between the two appeared to me to be about 
three quarters of a sea mile. Each coast was of a gravelly 
slope, behind which appeared flat, green fields. On the 
European side, at some distance from each other, lay some 
wretched stone cabins where the doors and windows were only 
holes in the walls ; here and there grew a pine bush, and a 
few Turks were wandering on the solitary path along the 
strand. On the Asiatic side it appeared more inviting, more 
like summer ; green fields with rich, umbrageous trees lay ex- 
tended there. 



THE DARDANELLES AND SEA OF MARMORA. 2 1 9 

Before us we saw Abydos in Asia, and Sestos in Europe, 
between which Leander swam over the stream that separated 
him from Hero. The burning lamp, held by love, was ex- 
tinguished in the storm, and in the storm a burning heart be- 
came icy cold. The same swimming exploit was performed 
by Byron and Lieutenant Ekenhead, R. N., in March, 18 10. 

The distance here between the coasts of these two parts of 
the world appeared to me not great ; at least, I saw with the 
naked eye every single bush and every person ; yet the trans- 
parency of the air must not be forgotten. Both the small 
towns had brown roofs, high, slender minarets, and before 
each house was a green, flourishing garden. 

The tide was against our steamer ; but with about a two 
hundred horse-power we get forward in the world. 

We steered over toward the coast of Asia and the great city 
of the Dardanelles, on the fortress of which one great cannon 
was ranged by the side of the other : they did not salute us. 
Soldiers in European uniform, yet with red, high-crowned fez, 
peeped forth from between the port-holes. Boats with Turks 
and Turkish women rowed round our steamer. All the ves- 
sels in sight carried the flag with the Crescent on it ; even the 
steam-vessel that passed us was Turkish. The deck was 
filled with Mussulmen, and their veiled women. The wind 
and tide were in their favor ; the mainsail was hoisted ; the 
smoke whirled thick and black out of the chimney, and the 
ship, with its motley passengers, shot forward at a rapid rate 
between the green coasts. 

Some of our passengers left us here, but new guests took 
their places: there was above a hundred, all Turks, with fez 
or turban, and armed with pistols and guns. An officer, per- 
haps between twenty and thirty years of age, had all his se- 
raglio with him. The women and their servants filled a whole 
boat when they came. I placed myself by the steps where 
they ascended to the deck ; three wives, three black female 
slaves, two children, and an attendant constituted the family. 
The women at once drew the veil over their faces, even 
the black slaves hid their dark beauty. Their attendant, 
dressed like the master himself, in military frock, fez on his 
head, and slippers on his boots, spread cushions out by the 



2 20 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

gunwale. The women laid themselves down on them with 
their backs to us, and their faces toward the balustrade : all 
had yellow morocco boots with red slippers over them ; they 
wore spacious silk trousers, a short, variegated skirt, and a 
conical-shaped cloak with black border ; a large white muslin 
veil covered the breast, neck, chin, and mouth, and hung for- 
ward over the head to the eyebrows. The nose and eyes 
were thus exposed ; the long dark eyelashes heightened the 
lustre of their black eyes, the whites of which were rather blu- 
ish ; the muslin sat so tight and was so transparent, that one 
could distinctly trace the form of the countenance. I after- 
ward learned in Constantinople that it is only when they are 
old and ugly that the veil is made of less penetrable stuff. 
We can see the form, the color, the red lips, and the shining 
white teeth when they laugh ; the youngest of the females was 
very pretty. 

Before we sailed, all the Turks we had on board were 
obliged to discharge their pistols and guns ; they cracked 
merrily, and gave an echo from Abydos and Sestos. All the 
weapons were laid in a heap in the middle of the vessel, which 
in a few minutes was covered from the bowsprit to the rudder 
with variegated cushions and carpets, on which the many 
Asiatic guests stretched themselves along ; some smoked to- 
bacco, others drank coffee, and others again opened the han- 
dles of their daggers, in which was an inkhorn and reed to 
write with, and composed long Turkish notes ; but whether 
they were in verse or prose, I cannot say. 

There still lay four sacks with coals by the engine chimney, 
and on one of these sat a merry young Turk, dressed in a 
dark-blue fur-bordered cloak, and with a splendid shawl tur- 
ban. He improvised verses, and told stories to a whole 
crowd, who had sat down around him. They laughed, and ap- 
plauded him j here were mirth and hilarity quite different from 
what I had imagined in the grave Turks. The captain and 
a few other Franks stood on the paddle-boxes and viewed 
the coasts. 

A burial-ground, with white monuments, lay on the Eu- 
ropean side : it might have been taken for a large bleaching- 
field. On the Asiatic side there was a charming appearance 






THE DARDANELLES AND SEA OF MARMORA. 22 1 

of spring. I took my place amongst the Turks, who listened 
to the improvisatore \ and they showed me how far more con- 
venient their clothes were than mine to lie down in. The 
trousers, fitted close about the ankles, but toward the knees 
they were like wide sacks ; and their jackets sat upon them 
just as easily. I presented some fruit to the young Turk who 
improvised, and he thanked me with a happy friendly face. 
His eyelashes were dark and long, but his eyes of a very 
light-blue : there was in them an expression of much good- 
nature, mixed with cunning. He seized his reed, tore a leaf 
of paper out of a pocket-book, and wrote, all the time nod- 
ding and smiling to me. He then gave me the leaf, on which 
was a Turkish verse. I showed it to a Frank who knew 
Turkish, and he translated it for me : at the bottom was the 
young Turk's name. He was going to Wallachia to buy some 
splendid horses ; but he would first see Stamboul. He had 
made the voyage on board the excellent steamship Rhamses ; 
and on it he had met with me, who came from a greater dis- 
tance than three times to Mecca. I thanked him for the 
verse, and he begged me to write him a few words in my lan- 
guage. I wrote a short Danish verse for him, and it was 
twisted and turned by him and his comrades just as I had 
twisted and turned his Turkish poem up and down. 

I afterward placed myself by the gunwale of the vessel, 
where the Turkish women sat, for I wished to see the coast ; 
but I also looked at the women. They were eating, and had 
therefore taken the veil from their mouths. They also re- 
garded me. The youngest and prettiest seemed to be a 
merry soul : she certainly made remarks about me, and whis- 
pered them to an elder one, who observed the greatest grav- 
ity, and only answered with a nod. During this mutual exam- 
ination and regarding of each other, a young Turk came up, 
and entered into conversation with me in French, in the 
course of which he said, in a half-jesting tone, that it was con- 
trary to the custom of the country for people to see their 
women without veils ; and asked me if I did not think the 
husband regarded me with a serious mien. His eldest little 
daughter waited on him with his pipe and coffee ; the younger 
one ran between him and the women. 



2 22 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

If a man would be on good terms with parents, he must 
make friends with the children. This is a wise rule : and 
one that I have always found a good one. I wished to get 
hold of the younger of the two girls, to give her fruit, and play 
with her j but she was like a wild kid ; she darted away to 
one of the black girls, clung fast to her, and hid herself, ex- 
cept the face, with the long veil. The merry little creature 
laughed from her place of security, and stretched her mouth 
out as if to kiss ; then whimpered aloud, and rushed toward 
her father. The elder sister, apparently about six years old, 
and extremely pretty, was more tame. She was a charming 
little unveiled Turkish girl, with red morocco slippers over 
her yellow boots, light-blue silk trousers, like bags, around her 
legs, a red flowered, short tunic, and a black velvet jacket 
over it, which descended around the hips ; her hair hung over 
her shoulders in two long plaits, in which were golden coins, 
and on her head she wore a little cap of gold stuff. She en- 
couraged her little sister to eat some of the fruit I offered ; 
but she would not. I ordered the servant to bring some pre- 
serves, and the eldest and I soon became the best of friends. 
She showed me her plaything ; it was a clay jug to drink out 
of, formed like a horse, and with a little bird behind each ear. 
Had I been able to speak Turkish with her, I should at once 
have made a story about it for her. I placed her on my lap, 
and she took hold of my cheeks with her small hands, and 
looked up in my eyes so affectionately and confidentially, that 
I was obliged to speak to her. I spoke Danish, and she 
laughed so that her little heart hopped within her : she had 
never before heard so strange a speech. She certainly 
thought that it was some Turkish gibberish I had put together 
for her amusement. Her fine small nails were painted, like 
the women's, quite black ; a black stripe was traced across 
the centre of the palm of her hand. I pointed to it, and she 
took one of her fine, long hair plaits and laid it in my hand, 
to form a similar stripe across it, then winked to her younger 
sister, who talked with her, but always at a respectable dis- 
tance. Her father called her, and as, with the most friendly 
expression of face, he put his hand to his fez, in the manner 
of the Franks, and greeted me, he whispered a few words in 



THE DARDANELLES AND SEA OF MARMORA. 223 

the child's ear. She nodded knowingly, took a cup of coffee 
out of the servant's hand, and brought it to me. A large 
Turkish pipe was next presented to me, but as I do not smoke 
tobacco, I accepted the coffee, and lay down on the cushion 
with the friendly husband, whose little daughter's heart I had 
already won. That pretty child's name was Zuleika ; and I 
can say with truth, that as I sailed from the Dardanelles into 
the Sea of Marmora, I got a kiss from one of Asia's daugh- 
ters. 

The town of Gallipoli lay to the left : it appeared singularly 
dark, and had quite the character of a northern Swedish town, 
if I except the tall, white minarets. All the houses — close 
to each house was a little garden — had pointed red roofs, 
just like ours in the North ; and they all appeared dark and 
old-fashioned, with wooden balconies, and porches painted 
red. There was something dark and ruinous in the appear- 
ance of the whole city. Several buildings hung over the sea 
where the waves ran strong ; it blew desperately cold. During 
my whole voyage in the South I never experienced it so cold. 
I felt the icy coldness of marble. A light-house was built 
on the Asiatic and one on the European side ; low, but wild 
and naked rocks extended along the coast by Gallipoli ; then 
came flat green fields as in Denmark: on the Asiatic coast 
several mountains arose behind each other. The wind and 
stream were against us ; the Sea of Marmora looked dark and 
foaming ; the waves struck against the prow of the vessel, and 
splashed over the Turks who had taken their places there ; 
one of them got a fine sousing. He shook his red mantle, 
and took his three head-coverings off; the outside one was 
quite filled with water. All the Turks have, as is well known, 
the hair of their heads shaved off, except a long tuft, by which 
the angel of life is to drag them out of the grave on the day 
of judgment. This Turk had on, first a white night-cap j 
over this was a little red fez, and on this again a larger fez 
with a silk tuft. I, however, felt myself able to bear the sea, 
but the wind was intolerably cold, — as in the North. We 
were soon out of sight of the coasts both of Europe and Asia, 
and steered our course directly toward the marble island, 
which arose picturesquely grand in the midst of the troubled 



2 24 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

sea. After dinner, we were under its coast, where the sea 
was not running so strong. The sun was going down, and it 
lighted up the beautiful island with its green trees and shin- 
ing white marble rocks. I thought of the Arabian Nights' 
tales, and although it was so cold, I felt myself here amid the 
scenes of its strange adventures. I believe it would not have 
astonished me much if the little clay horse with a bird behind 
its ear had received life, and swelled into a large horse which 
might have borne me and little Zuleika, and flown with us 
over to the marble island ; and when we touched the earth 
there amongst myrtles, that she had become a full grown girl, 
charming as she was in childhood, and glowing as the sun that 
had poured his beams into her dark eyes ; but the clay horse 
was not animated, and there was no flight. 

The sea ran stronger and stronger : I was obliged to lie 
down in my hammock, though it was not more than half-past 
seven in the evening. The cold Sea of Marmora so assailed 
the ship that its side bones cracked, making us fancy that the 
planks would be separated from each other. The time crept 
on at a snail's pace ; whenever I looked at the clock, the 
hands had scarcely advanced half an hour. " O, it will 
be a long night ! " said I, — and then I slept, whilst the ship 
danced over the foam of la mare di Marmora I 



VI. 

ARRIVAL AT CONSTANTINOPLE AND PERA. 

The whole night had been one of storm and rain ; in the 
morning the sunshine combated against clouds and mist ; be- 
hind us rolled the dark-green foamy waves of the Sea of Mar- 
mora ; but before us we saw, like a Venice built by the fancy, 
the Stamboul of the Turks, the immense city of Constan- 
tinople. Dark cypresses and light-green trees peeped forth, 
arabesque-like, between that stone-sea of dark red buildings, 
where the cupolas of the mosques, with golden balls and cres- 
cents, rested each like a Noah's ark ; and where the high 
column-like minarets, with their pointed towers, shone by 
hundreds against the gray, cloudy air. 



ARRIVAL AT CONSTANTINOPLE AND PER A. 



225 



The Bosphorus was not to be seen ; Asia's mountainous 
coast melted together with Europe's. The sunlight fell over 
a great part of the cypress forest — the Asiatic burial-ground 
of the Turks — of which they say that its surface is so great 
that it could furnish Constantinople with corn, and its coffins 
are so many that they could build new walls around the city 
with them. 1 

We sailed directly in under the old walls, which were built so 
as to be joined to the first building we saw there, the fortress, 
the seven towers, in Turkish — " Jedi Kulelev ; " — many an 
earthquake has shaken this building, but not destroyed it. 
Foliage of ivy and wild plants hung down from the walls ; 
dark and dingy was this inhabited ruin, the place of execu- 
tion for political prisoners, in the yard of which the well of 
blood swallows up the heads of the state criminals who are- 
put to death here. 

From the "Seven Towers," past the gardens of the Seraglio 
which form the point of the Golden Horn, 2 a road extends 
along by the sea under the walls of the city. Small houses 
and hanging gardens are erected on them, where Turkish boys- 
ran playing and screaming. 

Under the gardens of the Seraglio the road became smaller,, 
but the walls higher and quite white, with small overhanging 
houses, the railed-in windows of which shone with gold and: 
silver; the whole garden and walls lay fairy- like, like what we 
may have seen in a dream. The old Seraglio is a dark-red, 
noble-looking pile, but somewhat heavy in comparison with 
the rest of the environs. 8 The new Seraglio looks handsome, 
and invites the eye. Round about stand splendid kiosks, 
where rich marble columns support the glittering spiral roofs. 

1 The promontory here at Scutari is the place where Mythology states 
that Io landed, when, fleeing from Juno, she was turned into a heifer. 

2 Constantinople is built entirely in the form of a horn of plenty, and 
from thence it has the name of " The Golden Horn." 

3 On the place where Byzas erected temples to Neptune and Aphro- 
dite, Constantine built churches to the Virgin and St. Barbara. Where 
these temples and the churches stood there is now the Seraglio. A 
holy spring for the Christians bubbles forth from the garden through the 
walls. 

15 



2 26 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

We swept round the Golden Horn, past Leander's Tower, 1 
and now lay in the harbor, which extends into the sweet 
waters; 2 on the left side Constantinople greeted us, on the 
right lay Galata, and higher up Pera, the round tower of 
which stood high in air where the clouds floated. Large ves- 
sels formed a forest of masts in the broad bay. A mass 
of boats, most of them narrow and small like the canoes of 
the savages, with the rowers and passengers lying at the bot- 
tom, flew past like arrows. There was such a screaming and 
shouting, whistling and humming, compared with which the 
noise in the Bay of Naples appeared to me as a solemn festival. 

Old brown-yellow Turks, with large variegated turbans and 
naked arms, lifted their voices one above the other, swung 
their oars about, and invited us to enter their boats. I had my 
things thrown down into one, followed after myself, and away 
we went with rapid strokes toward the shore, which was gar- 
nished with boats and small vessels. We landed over these, 
and stood on the jetty. I offered the waterman a silver coin, 
the value of which I did not rightly know : he shook his head, 
took a very small coin from his pocket, and showed it to me, 
assuring me that a greater payment was not due to him. So 
honest are the Turks ; and every day, during my stay there, I 
had fresh proofs of their honesty. The Turks are the most 
good natured and fair dealing people I have ever encountered. 

A ruddy-brown muscular Arabian offered himself to carry 
my luggage. He put a cord hastily round my portmanteau, 
trunk, and hat-box, threw the burden over his shoulders, and 
walked on, only nodding when I named the hotel where I 
wished to stay. 

We came into a crooked street, or rather maze, where every 
house was a shop with vegetables, bread, meat, or clothes ; 
and where we met men of all nations. The way was through 
the narrow gate of Galata into Pera. No one asked me for a 

1 The Turks call it the Maiden's Tower, and connect with it a story of 
a Greek princess, who was kept imprisoned here by her father, but was 
liberated by the Arabian hero, Heschan. It is now used as a light- 
house. 

2 So the Franks call this beautiful valley, which borders on the northern 
part of the harbor, and is a place of amusement for the inhabitants of 
Constantinople and the suburbs. 



ARRIVAL AT CONSTANTINOPLE AND PER A. 



227 



passport. 1 The street ran steep upward, and was just as small, 
and with just as bad a pavement as at Galata. We went past 
a guard of young yellow-brown lads, in tight blue jackets and 
trousers, with white bandolier and red fez. They lay almost 
on their stomachs along the street and read their prayers. 
An hour-glass stood beside them. 

Under the tower of Pera, in the moat, there lay flayed and 
bleeding horses. We passed Turkish cafes where the foun- 
tains splashed in the open room. The Dervises' cloister, 
with golden inscriptions of the Alcoran, placed in the wall 
above the gate, lay on our way through the principal street, 
which is very small. The houses have two and three stories, 
and there are porches before them all. The side-streets are 
still narrower ; the buildings appear to meet above, so that in 
rainy weather one scarcely needs an umbrella here. 

What a swarm of beings ! In the midst of the crowd 
there was a Bulgarian peasant dancing, with a calot on his 
head, miserable sandals on his feet, and a long sheepskin 
jacket on his back. He danced like a bear springing up on 
its hind legs. Another Bulgarian played the bagpipes for 
him. Six or eight brown, muscular fellows were dragging 
along large blocks of marble, which were placed on round 
pieces of timber. They continually cried out their " Make 
way ! " We met Armenian priests with crape fluttering from 
their hats. Now sounded a mumbling song ; a young Greek 
girl was borne along to be buried ; she lay in her customary 
clothes, and with her face uncovered in the open coffin, which 
was ornamented with flowers. Three Greek priests and two 
little boys, with lighted candles, walked before. 

What a crowd ! what tumult ! Parti-colored carriages, look- 
ing like small alcoves made of card-board, gilded before and 
behind, with long fluttering curtains, from behind which veiled 
women peeped out, rocked over the uneven pavement. Horses 
and asses laden with beams and planks forced their way 
through the crowd. 

At length we came to the Hotel de la France, kept by Mr. 

1 The same was the case on my arrival in Greece ; on the contrary, on 
my departure from Piraeus, mine and every passenger's trunk were exam- 
ined to see if we did not take away any statues. 



2 28 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

Blondel ; and, no sooner were we within the door, than every- 
thing gave signs of European arrangement and convenience. 
French and Italian waiters ran up and down stairs, comfort- 
able rooms were before us, and at the table d'hote we dined 
as well as in any good hotel in the larger cities of Europe. 
The company was much diversified. The chief portion were 
Franks, who came from their travels in Asia Minor, and had 
retained their Asiatic dress, in which they were most secure. 
A few Prussian officers, in the Sultan's army, were in Turkish 
military surtouts, and with the high-crowned fez. The noise 
from the street ascended to us in a sort of mitigated hiss. 
The Bulgarian's bagpipes sounded ; a snuffling song, executed 
by the poor, unveiled women from the mountains, outroared 
these tones, and then blared the noisy martial music, as the 
soldiers came home from parade. I knew the melody ; it was 
the galiopade in Auber's opera, " Gustavus III." 



VII. 

THE BAZAARS. 

The stranger ought first of all to visit the bazaars 1 in Con- 
stantinople. To do so is to enter into that enormous city at 
once : one is overwhelmed with the sight, the splendor, and 
the tumult. Each is a city of bees that we enter ; but every 
bee is a Persian, an Armenian, an Egyptian, or a Greek. 
The East and West hold a great fair here. No other city can 
show such a crowd, such a variety of costumes, or such a 
grouping of articles of trade. 

When one goes over the bay in a boat from Pera to Con- 
stantinople, the street that leads to the bazaars is throughout 
on the ascent. It is narrow, winding, and crooked. The 
ground-floors of the houses on each side resemble the wooden 
shops in our markets. We can see directly into the workshop 
of the shoemaker and carpenter ; we fancy that we go right 

1 Besestan, that is to say, covered market-places, are here called the 
bazaars. There are, properly, three. The side-streets may be regarded 
as entrance halls. 



THE BAZAARS. 



229 



through the kitchen and bakehouse, there is such a cooking, 
and baking ; such a steam and odor from the ovens and chim- 
neys in the open houses. Bread, and all kinds of victuals, 
are exhibited for sale. 

We now stand outside the great bazaar, around which small 
half-covered streets branch off in different directions. One 
quarter offers all kinds of fruit and vegetables, both fresh and 
preserved ; another has shell-fish, and fish of the most differ- 
ent colors and forms. Large pieces of sail-cloth, or old car- 
pets, are drawn across the street from shop to shop, like a 
roof. The pavement is very bad, and the gutter is in the 
middle of the street. 

A long hall, formed, for the most part, of planks, and quite 
filled with pipe-heads, pipe-tubes, and mouth-pieces of amber, 
leads into the bazaar, which is built with thick fire-proof walls. 
It is an entire roofed town ; every nation has its separate quar- 
ter : the Jews theirs, the Egyptians theirs, etc., etc. Every sort 
of article of trade has its street ; every particular trade its de- 
partment, — the shoemakers one, the saddlers one, and so on 
without end. Every street is an arcade painted with flowers 
and inscriptions from the Koran • the light comes down from 
the ceiling. Shop is joined to shop, and each seems like an 
inverted chest, in the back of which an opening is cut in the 
thick wall, where the goods not exposed to view are kept. 

The Egyptians' quarter — Missr-tscharschussi — seems like 
a complete apothecary's shop, extending through two streets. 
All the spices of India and Arabia, medicinal herbs, and val- 
uable colors, exhale a mixed odor. A tawny Egyptian in a 
long talar stands behind the counter ; he looks like the figures 
of an alchemist, such as we have been accustomed to see de- 
lineated in prints. 

Another arcade has the appearance of being the entrance 
hall to the world's armory. Here is the saddlers' arcade ; sad- 
dles and bridles of morocco leather and buffalo's skin, from 
the most exquisite and curiously sewed, to the simplest and 
almost clumsy, hang on the walls, and are spread out on the 
counters and floor. 

Another arcade is the jewelers'. Gold chains glitter, brace- 
lets sparkle, valuable rings and precious jewels dazzle the eye. 



23O A POETS BAZAAR. 

We are now got amongst a mass of perfumers ; here is a 
scent of oil of roses, musk-bags, incense, and odorous rats'-tails. 
We enter the next arcade, and see nothing but boots and 
shoes in all colors, and of all forms ; slippers glittering with 
pearls and beautiful embroidery. Another arcade crosses this, 
and is filled with all kinds of linen-drapers' and mercers' wares 
such as muslins, handkerchiefs embroidered with large golden 
flowers, splendid stuffs, etc. The next arcade glitters with 
arms, — Damascus blades, daggers, knives, guns, and pistols. 

It is highly interesting to regard the characteristic manner 
in which each nation manifests itself. The Turk sits seriou 
and majestic, with the long pipe in his mouth ; the Jew and 
the Greek are bustling ; they shout and wink ; meanwhile the 
varied mass moves along through these crossing arcades. Per- 
sians, with pointed hairy caps ; Armenians with inverted cone- 
shaped black hats ; Bulgarians in sheepskin mantles ; Jews 
with ragged shawl around the black high-crowned turban ; 
smart Greeks, and veiled women. Here is a crowd ; and in the 
midst of all this there rides a Turk of distinction, who neither 
looks to the right nor left. 

On a given signal in the evening, the sellers and buyers de- 
part. A sort of watchman, to whom the charge of guarding 
the bazaars is intrusted, locks all the entrances, and opens 
them again next morning at a fixed time ; the sellers then find 
their shops just as they left them. Even during the day a sin- 
gle shop is never closed, otherwise than by the owner hanging 
a net before it ; or he draws a few pieces of pack-thread across, 
for there no one ventures to steal. The magnificent shops of 
the Palais Royal, in comparison with the bazaars of Constan- 
tinople, are as a richly dressed grisette compared to the 
daughter of the East in her rich stuffs, with her hair shedding 
the perfumes of attar of roses and myrrh. 



A RAMBLE THROUGH CONSTANTINOPLE. 23 1 

VIII. 

A RAMBLE THROUGH CONSTANTINOPLE. 

We have seen the bazaars, the heart of ancient Stamboul ; 
we will now take a short ramble and begin with what was for- 
merly called a " forbidden road " for the Christian, namely, the 
female slave-market ; then to one of the mosques, the permis- 
sion to enter which is now easily obtained : but the presents 
that are to be given to the different persons in office from 
whom this permission proceeds amount to not a small sum 
of money ; still amongst the strangers in Pera there is often 
an ambassador, or rich man, who willingly pays this tribute. 
The guides always know the particulars, and then we apply to 
him who has the granting of the permission, which is always 
given for the person and suite. 

Thus we now belong to the suite of a rich American ; but 
we must go on horseback, for it looks more pompous, and the 
Turks pay great regard to pomp and magnificence. A few 
soldiers, also mounted, accompany the procession. 

Not far from the great bazaar, we come to a place surrounded 
by wooden buildings, forming an open gallery ; the jutting roof 
is supported by rough beams ; inside, along the gallery, are 
small chambers where traders stow their goods, — and these 
goods are human beings — black and white female slaves. 

We are now in the square ; the sun shines ; rush mats are 
spread out under the green trees, and there sit and lie Asia's 
daughters. A young mother gives the breast to her child, 
and they will separate these two. On the stairs leading to the 
gallery sits a young negress not more than fourteen years of 
age ; she is almost naked ; an old Turk regards her. He has 
taken one of her legs in his hand ; she laughs, and shows her 
shining white teeth. 

Do not veil the beautiful white women, thou hideous old 
wretch ; it is these we wish to see ; drive them not into the 
cage ; we shall not, as thou thinkest, abash them with bold eyes. 

See ! a young Turk with fiery looks ; four slaves follow him ; 
two old Jewesses are trading with him. Some charming 
Tscherkasier girls have come ; he will see them dance, hear 



32 



A POETS BAZAAR. 



them sing, and then choose and buy ! He could give us a de- 
scription of the slave-market, such as we are not able to offer. 
He follows the old women to behold the earth's houris ; and 
how do they look ? The Turkish poet Ibn Katib has sung 
about the heavenly beings, and of these we perhaps dare hear, 
remembering that he borrowed the picture from the earthly. 

" Know, a houri is a beauty, black of eye and white of cheek ; 

Eyebrows small, lashes long ; her locks with fragrant odors teem ; 
Varied brightness dwells in each, just like pearls in mussel shells, 
Their lustre changes every minute ! Here is color without equal, 
Here is beauty, here is grace ; here are heaven's choicest roses ! 
The mountain's snow and ocean's foam of their whiteness are ashamed, 
No earthly fruits, nor earthly roses, can these cheeks and mouth resem- 
ble. 
What are pearls and what are jewels to the foot's musk-dust compared ? 
Some are dark and others light, like two species of bright rubies : 
This gives only stolen glances, the other sends them in long looks. 
If a houri showed herself here, earth would stand in rays of light ; 
If she had her lips half opened, man would praise th' Almighty's power. 
More than worlds the veil conceals, for it does her eyes secrete : 
Formed of light the houris are, and cannot like the dust be changed. 
Always young, always ! " — 

But we shall do best to ride away from Ibn Katib and Con- 
stantinople's slave-market ! 

We stop at the Church of St. Sophia ; it is a heavy, irregular 
building. Constantine the Great had it erected and conse- 
crated to the holy wisdom, " Aj a Sophia." Rare and sin- 
gular relics were preserved here : the Samaritan well j three 
doors covered with planks from Noah's ark ; the angels' 
trumpets, said to have been used at the siege of Jericho: 
but these curiosities have disappeared. Aja Sophia sank 
twice under the flames, and once by an earthquake, but always 
rose again in renewed splendor. On the nights of the Rama- 
zan, when the almost flat cupola is illuminated with ostrich 
egg lamps, and the whole congregation in motley splendor lie 
outstretched on their faces, the church flatters itself with vis- 
ions of the coronations of emperors, espousals, synods, and 
church meetings ; it dreams of that night of terror when its 
gates were forced, and the Christian altars profaned ; it still 
hears the sound of "There is but one God and Moham- 
med is his prophet! " as it heard it that night from the lips 



A RAMBLE THROUGH CONSTANTINOPLE. 



233 



of the emperor Mohammed, when it was transformed into a 
mosque. 

What strange dreams — the history of whole generations 
of mankind — are enacted there, as though they were reali- 
ties ! Perhaps thou also dreamest of the future, Aja Sophia ! 
or hast a foreboding like that which moves amongst the people 
within. Shall the obliterated Cross on the door again be re- 
newed ? Shall the altar be removed from the corner toward 
Mecca, and take its place again toward the East ? The Mus- 
sulman points to a walled-up door in the uppermost gallery of 
the church and whispers a tradition from that night, when a 
Christian priest was hewed down before the altar behind this 
door. If the Christians once more become masters here, and 
IshmaePs race pass into Asia, which already holds its dead, 
every stone in the doorway will fall, and the Christian priest 
will stand there again and sing the mass in which he stopped 
when the death-blow struck him. When the mass is ended 
the dead priest will vanish, and Christian hymns sound through 
the church. 

It is strange to wander here, followed by armed men, and 
regarded with angry looks by the praying visitants, as if we 
were excommunicated spirits. 

Magnificent pillars are seen here. The eight of porphyry 
once stood under the cupola of the Temple of the Sun in Baal- 
bec ; the green were brought from the Temple of Diana in 
Ephesus. We read under the cupola, in letters twelve feet 
long, an inscription from the Alcoran : " God is the light of 
heaven and earth ! " 

Look not so angrily at us, thou old priest ; thy God is also 
our God ! Nature's temple is the joint house of God for us ; 
thou kneelest toward Mecca ; we toward the East ! " God 
is the light of heaven and earth ! " He enlightens every mind 
and every heart ! 

We depart from Aja Sophia; a short street leads us to Al- 
meidan, the largest and handsomest square in Constantinople. 
Yet it was once far more splendid. 

Here was the Hippodrome which Constantine ornamented 
with colonnades and statues ; here stood the proud bronze 
horses, that now find a place in Venice over the entrance to 



234 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

St. Mark's Church; 1 here stood the colossal statue of Her- 
cules, every finger of which was equal to a man in circumfer- 
ence. Only three monuments of former times are now to be 
found here. The first is a little column formed of three en- 
twined copper snakes. They were once the pedestal for the 
oracle's tripod in Delphi ; the Turks regarded it as a talisman 
for the Greek kingdom, and therefore Mohammed II. cut off 
the head of one of the snakes, with his battle-axe ; the Eng- 
lish stole the two others, and the Turkish boys now use the 
ore-green remains as a target. 

A few paces from hence rises an obelisk of porphyry, cov- 
ered with hieroglyphics ; it came from Egypt through Athens ; 
and it stands unchanged, as if protected by the invisible 
gods of Egypt. 

The third monument here is a square stone column of im- 
mense size. It threatens to fall. It is Constantine's pillar, 
and was once covered with plates of gilded copper ; we now 
see only the iron rings that held them together. 

These are the remains of the Hippodrome's splendor. Yet 
this is still the finest place in the city : its extent, and the 
Mosque of Sultan Achmet, blind our eyes. Behind the shin- 
ing white wall, with the gilt trellised windows, there are high 
plantains and cypresses ; within the walls, by the gilded 
grave-columns, are splashing fountains. It is a little grove, 
where the Mussulmen and women pace silently. The broad 
steps lead up to Achmet's Mosque, where all is marble — 
even the six high minarets, lifting their balustrades one above 
the other, and ornamented with carved railings : golden balls 
glitter on the cupolas ; the Crescent shines on the minarets ; 
it is beautiful to behold. 

And yet we depart from it. A crooked little street leads 
us to a fantastic building, where everything is marble and 
gold. See how it shines against the blue, transparent air. 
Plantains, cypresses, and flowering rose-hedges form a little 
garden behind the ornamented walls, with splendid windows, 
and artificial carvings. The building itself is certainly Fata 

1 They came from Athens to Chios, then to Constantinople ; from thence 
they were taken to Venice. Napoleon had them brought to Paris ; and 
now they are again in Venice. 



A RAMBLE THROUGH CONSTiVTWOPLE. 235 

Morgana's own bed-chamber, it is so light and airy, though 
built of marble. The columns, cornice, and roof beam with 
ornaments and colors. We ascend the stairs, which go round 
the whole building ; we look through the large panes, between 
a gilt trellis, and see a round, airy house ; the eye is blinded 
with the magnificence of the East ! Is it a bridal-chamber for 
the first Pasha of the land ? No, it is a tomb ! It is Sultan 
Mahmoud's tomb. 1 In the middle of the floor stands his cof- 
fin, covered with valuable shawls of various colors ; his rich 
turban glittering with jewels and with a feather that seems 
plaited of rays, is laid on the coffin where his head rests. 
Small coffins stand around it in a circle ; in each of them re- 
poses one of his children ; they are all hidden by rich carpets. 
Two priests stare at us, and raise their hands in a threaten- 
ing posture : " The Christian man must not see a Believer's 
grave ! " say they ; the censer swings, and the blue smoke of 
the incense rises in the sunbeams toward the splendid roof. 

A tent was spread over Mahmoud's coffin, after they had 
brought it hither. Rich and poor were permitted to enter ; 
old men wept, so beloved was he : he who had overthrown the 
Janizaries, and introduced the discipline and clothing of the 
Franks. The building was, meanwhile, erected around the 
tent, as we now see it. When the cupola was placed, and 
when the Crescent shone in the sun's rays, the tent was first 
taken from over the coffin, which was wet with tears. 

But now we are tired of rambling and sight-seeing ; there 
is a day to-morrow, when we will go to the caravanserai — 
that mighty stone colossus which contains the rich wares from 
the cities of Asia. We will go to the magnificent aqueduct, 
where the creeping plants hang between the large square 
stones ; we will visit a Turkish bath : 2 nay, perhaps try one. 

See, this is our day's ramble in Constantinople ! 

1 Abdul Medjid's father. 

2 The bathing-houses have cupolas like the mosques, into which the 
light descends through large glass bells. In the foremost saloon, where 
we undress, there is a fountain, and along the walls there are divans ; we 
enter through a warmer room into the bathing saloon, which is of marble, 
with high columns. The floor is heated, so that we must walk in wooden 
slippers : a hot steam fills the whole saloon. 



236 A POETS BAZAAR. 

IX. 

THE DERVISES' DANCE. 

It is well known that the Turks, speaking generally, regard 
all imbecile persons as inspired by a divine spirit. Therefore 
the insane have places in the mosques. The terrible Isani 
are objects of respect and awe ; the Dervises are included in 
this category by reason of their dance, which is a positive self- 
torture. They chew a sort of intoxicating root, which in- 
creases their delirium. 

The dervises who have their cloister in Scutari are called 
" Ruhanis," which signifies " the howling." The dervises in 
Pera are named " Mewlewis," that is, " the turning." They 
usually dance on Thursdays and Fridays. I have seen these 
dances, and will try to give a description of them, and of the 
impression the whole ceremony, in their cloister, made on me. 

A traveller, with whom I sailed over to Scutari to see the 
Dervises, prepossessed me particularly by his accounts of the 
dance of the Isani, which resemble them. The traveller came 
from Tripoli, where, as on. the whole coast of Africa, in all the 
mosques there are found, under a sort of guard, whole crowds 
of these creatures. On a certain day in the year it is made 
known that the Isani will dance through the streets, and then 
every one locks his door. No Christian or Jew ventures out, 
or he might, on meeting this wild procession, although it is 
under guard, be torn to pieces alive. Dogs, cats, every fowl 
that comes in their way, they tear to pieces, swallowing the 
reeking limbs. 

" I was last year, on that very day (the day for the insane) 
in Tripoli," said the stranger. " I obtained a place on the 
flat roof of our Consul's house. All the gates and doors in 
the street were well fastened ; the procession approached ; a 
crowd of well-armed horse soldiers surrounded the furious 
mob, which, with the exception of a belt, were completely 
naked. Their long, jet-black hair hung down over their shoul- 
ders. They made strange little jumps, and uttered a wild 
howl, constantly throwing the head forward, and then back 
again, so that the long hair sometimes concealed the face, and 



THE DER VISES' DANCE. n^J 

sometimes fluttered about with frightful wildness. The hor 
rid screams were accompanied by the music of drums and 
bagpipes ; and as they sprang forward, they now and then 
stooped down, took up a loose flint, and cut deep gashes in 
their breasts and arms with it. In order to see the wildness 
of the Isanis, we ordered a Moorish slave to bind a living goat 
outside the house where we stood. As the crowd came on, 
the Moor was directed to kill the animal : he stuck his dagger 
into its neck, and then sprang in behind the door. The goat 
sprawled in its blood, and at the same time, the howling Isa- 
nis pressed forward. One of them thrust his hand into the 
bleeding wound, lifted the goat up with a howl, tore it in 
pieces, and flung the bleeding entrails up against the walls of 
the house. The whole crowd fell upon the animal, and liter- 
ally ate the flesh, hide, and hair ! " 

During this relation we crossed the Bosphorus. I only 
repeat what was told me ; and it was the prelude to the fancy 
which seized me of going to the cloister, and seeing what was 
to be enacted there. 

We were now in Scutari, a city that has a hundred and fifty 
thousand inhabitants — twenty thousand more than Copen- 
hagen ; yet it is only regarded as a suburb of Constantinople. 
Here everything is old Mohammedan. Here live, if we may 
dare to call them so, the orthodox Turks. A few well armed, 
half-naked Arabs drove their laden camels from the shore, 
through the street, toward the large burial-ground. A long 
walk began ; we followed them, and stopped at a remote 
corner of the city, at a poor, insignificant house. This was 
the dervises' cloister. 

The door was not yet open ; we had come too early, and 
therefore went to the neighboring cafes which extend straight 
up to the immense cypress forest, where the dead rest. A num- 
ber of Turks, military and civilian, sat outside the cafes under 
the green leaf-trees. Some of them were here to take part in 
the dervises' dance, or, like us, to see it. An ugly old dwarf 
sat there j they said that he was a zealous Ruhani, and that I 
should soon see him amongst the dancers. He was said to 
be very rich, and had twelve handsome wives in his seraglio. 
He had his son with him in the cafe — a fine boy, who was as 
tall as his father. 



238 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

At length the door of the cloister was opened. We went 
over to it, and came into a broad front hall, divided into two 
parts by a woolen carpet ; here it looked like the shed before 
the out-building where they exhibit wild animals in our pro- 
vincial towns. Every one was obliged to pull off his boots 
or shoes, which were set up behind the curtain. 

My companion, the traveller, who had been in' Tripoli, 
took a pair of morocco slippers out of his pocket, pulled 
them over his boots, and in this manner entered ; but the 
Turks looked angrily at him and spoke to themselves. I had 
straps sewed fast to my trousers, so that it was difficult to get 
the boots off; but as one ought to follow the custom of a 
country or fly the land, I took my knife out, at once cut the 
straps in two, and walked in like the Turks in my socks. An 
old man with a turban on nodded mildly and said something 
which my interpreter translated for me, — " That I was a good 
man who respected their religion, and deserved to be a Turk ! " 
" God enlighten thee ! " were his last words. 

I now entered the temple itself, if it can be so called. It 
formed a square hall ; above was a well-grated gallery for the 
women ; at the bottom was a barrier of rough boards round 
about \ within was the dancing place, which for the moment was 
covered with red, white, and blue colored skins ; on these lay 
a number of dervises on their stomachs. They were clothed in 
the customary dress of the Turks, yet there were also many in 
the new regulation dresses, military frocks and high, large fez. 
They touched the floor with their foreheads \ now and then 
they raised their heads ; but as if something terrified them, 
they struck their heads quickly down again. I stood in my 
socks on the cold stone floor, and shifted the one foot on to 
the instep of the other, to get a little warmth in them. It was 
by no means pleasant. 

Large frames with Turkish inscriptions, and pictures repre- 
senting buildings, hung down the centre wall. Here also 
hung tambourines, cymbals, and iron scourges with sharp 
spikes to tear the skin with. In the middle of the wall was a 
niche, which served as an altar, the same as in the mosques ; 
in front of this stood an ecclesiastic in blue talar, green tur- 
ban, and with a long white beard. He swung a censer with 



THE DER VISES' DANCE. 239 

burning incense, and uttered some Turkish words in a strange, 
guttural manner. And now some of them began a song with 
chorus, — I say a song, but that is not the right word for such 
a noise. It was a sound that was something so peculiarly 
wild, changing in different rhymes — a sort of scale — a sin- 
gular running up of notes with the throat, quite as a savage 
with a musical ear would have imitated a bravura in his way, 
after having heard it for the first time. It was more horri- 
ble than really inharmonious to hear. 

After the dervises had touched the floor several times with 
their foreheads, they arose, kissed the priest's hand, and placed 
themselves in a semicircle along the barrier that separated 
them from the spectators. 

The dance began. At the same time there came a man 
whose appearance was calculated to excite the greatest horror I 
have ever as yet seen any human being capable of producing. 
He was accompanied by two dervises from Pera, so easily 
known by their high crowned felt hats without a brim. I have 
never seen a man in whom insanity was so clearly visible in 
the eyes as this. The other dancers had laid their turbans 
and fez in the niche, and each had put on a white felt calot or 
cap ; it was in such a one that the madman entered, who, my 
guide informed me, was a hermit from the neighborhood of 
Medina. His black, wiry hair, hung far down over his back 
and shoulders ; he had on a white cloak, on which was sewed 
two winged horses of red stuff; he placed himself in the cen- 
tre of the semicircle. All stood as if their feet were nailed 
fast, but as if a steam-engine set the other limbs in motion : 
every joint moved in the same direction, first forward, then 
backward ; now to the right, then to the left ; and all during 
a song or recitation — whatever we may choose to call it — 
first slowly and then in quicker and quicker time — the song 
as well as the motion ; so that by degrees the dancers fell into 
wild, nay, almost obscene postures. 

Two young Turks sat cross-legged outside the semicircle and 
led the song, which rose continually with a monotonous into- 
nation on the third syllable. They ran through the whole of 
Mohammed's race, from Abdallah to Mohammed, and the cho- 
rus was : " La illah ! illalah ! " At last it sounded like a dull 



2,10 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

howl, a snoring, or death rattle. Some were pale as death : 
others were deep red ; the water streamed down from all their 
faces. The hermit now threw off his cloak, and stood in a red 
woolen blouse with sleeves extending over his hands, and with 
naked legs ; he was soon in a state of madness, and tore his 
tight blouse, striking his breast with his naked arms. One of 
his hands was withered, probably his own doing; his mouth 
was one bleeding wound ; both his lips had lately been cut off, 
so that the white teeth grinned ; it was horrible to look at ! 
His mouth began to bleed, his eyes rolled, and the veins in 
his forehead swelled. The dance became more and more 
violent, and yet not one moved an inch from his place. They 
seemed not to be men, but machines. They no longer spoke 
words: words were lost in a short howl. "Jehovah" 
sounded like " Je — hu ! " in the rest of the song, " Ja — med ! " 
" O help ! " most distinctly. It was like a death groan — it 
was frightful ; and the more I looked at the dancers, the 
more I felt that I was in a mad-house amongst the insane. 
" Ja— hu ! ja — hu ! " was the wild, howling cry. 

My companion whispered to me : " For Heaven's sake do 
not laugh, or we are undone ! they will murder us ! " 

" Laugh ! " I replied : " I am ready to weep ! It is afflicting 
-*■ it is shocking ! I cannot bear it any longer ! " 

I sought the door in haste, and at the same moment some 
of the dancers fell to the ground. 

When I was out in the street, I still heard the wild howl : 
"Ja— hu! ja— hu" 

How beautiful, how warm it was without in the clear sunshine. 
The light boat, thin as a shaving, darted from the coast of 
Asia toward Europe, over the rapid current, past sailing vesels 
and boats. The least shock, and we must have upset; but 
of that I thought not ; we came from the dwelling of terror, 
and here all was nature and gladness. 

The day after, I visited the Mewlewis, the turning dervises 
in Pera. They have their own peculiar dress, and a fine airy 
cloister. Everything shows that they stand in a higher rank 
than the Ruhanis. The entrance to the cloister is near the 
burial-ground, toward the principal street in Pera. There are 
some high cypresses in the court-yard. The cloister itself is 
separated from the temple where they dance. 



THE DER 'VISES' DANCE. 



2 4 I 



An old Armenian accompanied me thither ; the yard was 
filled with women, but they durst not enter the temple itself. 
I saw several young dervises through the open windows of the 
cloister, exercising themselves in turning round. 

The soldiers on guard winked to us while we stood in the 
yard. We were obliged to take off our boots, and were then 
conducted into the gallery which extends around the saloon, 
and which was covered with mats. Everything was clean and 
handsome : the view through the open windows to Scutari and 
the distant Asiatic mountains certainly contributed much to the 
embellishment : every window afforded a splendid diorama. 

The gallery I entered was quite filled with Turks ; but when 
they saw me, a stranger, they all made way directly, and pushed 
each other aside, so that I might come freely up to the barrier. 
Here, and everywhere else, I must praise the civility of the 
Turks. 

The festival now began. A crowd of dervises entered ; 
they were all barefooted, and each of them was wrapped up 
in a large, dark-green cloak ; a white felt hat, certainly an ell 
high, and entirely without a brim, covered the head. One of 
the eldest, with a long white beard, placed himself in the 
middle of the hall, crossed his arms, and said a prayer, 
accompanied by low, monotonous music — two notes on the 
flute, and but one, and the same note, on the drums ; it 
sounded almost like the regular splashing of a fountain. 
All the other dervises went slowly in a circle around the old 
man. 

They now threw off their cloaks, and each appeared in an 
open, dark-green jacket, with long, narrow sleeves ; a long 
skirt of the same stuff and color hung down to the ankles, 
and fell in large folds around their legs. They extended their 
arms and turned round, always to the same side : their skirts 
stood in the air like a funnel about them. 

In the centre of the circle stood two dervises, who con- 
tinued to turn to the same side, and always on the same spot ; 
the others turned round about them in a whirling dance ; the 
eldest with a long beard, walked quietly between those that 
formed the outer circle, and the two in the middle. The 
dance was intended to represent the course of the planets. 
16 



242 



A POETS BAZAAR. 



A low, monotonous song was heard from a closed gallery 
above us ; the drum and fife continued a sleepy music, whilst 
the dancers uninterruptedly continued their turning round 
to the same side, and always keeping the same time. They 
looked just like lifeless figures : not a feature was changed, 
but all were pale as death. 

There was a heavy blow on the drum, when they suddenly 
stood still as if struck by lightning. They mumbled a short 
prayer ; the monotonous music began again, and again they all 
turned to the same side as before. We became giddy by look- 
ing at them : they turned and turned. Now one tottered ; the 
fife and drum then sounded in quicker time, and the one 
who tottered whirled still quicker round, always wilder and 
quicker ; it was not possible to bear the sight of it ! This 
dance lasted a whole hour j but there was nothing horrifying 
in it. It might almost be called graceful ; one had only to 
forget that they were men, to believe that they were puppets. 
The dance, in unison with the low sameness of the music, 
gave the whole the character of silent insanity, which affected 
more than disturbed the spirits. The whole performance 
could scarcely be called edifying : it appeared to me like a 
sort of ballet, whereas the dance of the dervises in Scutari 
remained in my memory like a scene in a mad-house. 



X. 

A TURKISH SKETCH. 

When we descend from Pera, and pass between the cy- 
presses of the church-yard, we come to a little quarter which 
must be regarded as belonging to Galata, although it lies out- 
side the walls. Here is a real Turkish street, where the 
efforts of modern enterprise are not yet to be traced. This 
street runs somewhat angularly ; its breadth is so great that 
an ass, with its panniers, can pass through ; it is not paved, 
and after rain it seems to be a muddy brook, in which they 
have driven piles and laid a plank on them. 

All the houses are made of wood, and two stories high : 



A TURKISH SKETCH. 



243 



the ground-floor presents to view an open shop, without win- 
dows or doors — in fact, an inverted chest ; and there, on the 
raised floor, sits the Turk, with his long pipe, his articles of 
sale hanging round about. The old Turks, in their parti-coi- 
ored dresses, and generally with a noble countenance adorned 
by a long beard, sit here the day through. There is no chatter- 
ing here. Every house might be taken for a wooden shed 
before a wax cabinet, and we have the wax figure in the owner 
himself. A pack of dogs, without masters, are fighting in the 
middle of the street; another pack are devouring a carcass 
that lies there. I give the picture as I have seen it. Five or 
six little Turkish boys, almost naked — one, at least, has only 
a turban on — skip about, with a wild howl, around a dead 
horse, which, as the hide is flayed off, lies there in a corner, 
reeking, and stretching its four legs in the air. A naked brat 
gets up to ride on the raw animal, and then jumps about : it 
is an original sight ! 

But is there no ray of poetry in all this filth ? I answer, Yes ; 
for I remember the large vines which, on some of the houses, 
stretch their thick stems up the wooden wall, and spread like 
a leafy roof over the street to the neighbor's house, which it 
decks with its green leaves ! I remember the well-grated up- 
per story, which incloses the women and hides them from the 
stranger's gaze. There is poetry. The Turk himself, the 
yellow opium-eater, who sits in red trousers and bright yellow 
caftan with green turban, is a living poem ; he sits cross- 
legged with half-closed eyes and trembling lips ; my eye reads 
the quivering leaves of the spiritual work ; and it runs thus : — 

" See how the vine winds its tendrils ! Its leaf is green as 
my turban ; its juice is red as my blood ! But the prophet has 
said that the juice and the blood shall not mingle ! To drink 
wine is a sin ; wine is for Christians and Jews ! But the 
opium root is Solomon's ring ! It is better than wine in my 
mouth ; it becomes a mountain with grapes and sunshine ! 
Every sorrow exhales away ! I feel myself so hale ; I become 
so glad ; I become wild ; I hover and fly ! The prophet 
knows what I do ! Allah is great ! " 



244 A P0ETS BAZAAR. 

XL 

THE CEMETERY AT SCUTARI. 

The Turks regard themselves as strangers in Europe ; they 
must, therefore, rest in their father-land, and it is Asia. The 
largest cemetery of Constantinople is at Scutari. Where one 
is buried, the Turks never lay another corpse ; the grave of the 
dead is his home, and that is inclosed ; thus the cemetery soon 
increases in size. That at Scutari extends for miles. For 
every child that is born, they plant a plantain-tree, and for 
every man that dies, they plant a cypress ; the cemetery at 
Scutari is, therefore, an extensive forest cut through with 
roads and paths. Here are the richest monuments, the great- 
est variations of monumental pillars over the dead. Beside 
the graves, which are covered with aflat, extended stone, there 
is a recess or hole into which the rain falls ; the dogs slake 
their thirst there j and the Turk fondly believes, from this, 
that the dead are happy in Mohammed's paradise. 

The grave-stones, each with a turban or ftz cut in the stone, 
stand under the tall cypresses, and as close to each other as 
the stubble in a mowed field. One can easily see where the 
dervise or Turk of the real old faith' rests, and where the new 
half-Europeanized race is brought to sleep ; the name and 
rank of the deceased are inscribed on the stone in golden char- 
acters. An ingenious epitaph tells of the mutability of life, or 
calls on the reader to pray for the dead. Where a woman 
rests we see only a carved lotus-leaf, ornamented with gold ; 
but not a word is said of her. Even in death, woman here is 
veiled and unknown to the stranger. 

No fence incloses this forest of the dead ; it is still and sol- 
itary under these mighty cypresses. The broad highway passes 
over the overthrown graves ; the Arab drives his camel past, 
— the bell on the animal's neck is the only sound that disturbs 
this vast solitude. 

The Sea of Marmora lies before us, still as the dead under 
the cypresses, and shows us its beautifully colored islands. 
The largest seems a little paradise with wild rocks, vineyards, 
cypress, plantain, and pine woods ! What grandeur is to be 



THE CEMETERY AT SCUTARI. 245 

seen from this garden of the dead ! This scene of splendor 
which we behold was the place of banishment for dethroned 
emperors, princes, and princesses under the Byzantine empire. 
They sighed in the cloisters on those islands, like poor monks 
and nuns ! It is better with the dead ! Corruption sleeps there 
without dreaming ; but the eternal, striving, has haply reached 
its God. 

What silence amongst these graves under the cypresses ! 
We will wander here in the clear moonlight night. What dark 
trees ! night slumbers over the graves. What a radiant sky ! 
life streams from it. 

Yonder, over the rugged way, there moves a white orb, and 
a red, beaming one, as if they were shining roses ; they are 
only two paper lanterns. An old Turk holds them in his 
hand as he rides through the garden of the dead : he thinks 
not of the dead ; no, the living are in his thoughts ; the beau- 
tiful, the merry women in that comfortable home where he will 
soon stretch his limbs on the soft cushions, eat the hot pilaf, 
smoke his pipe whilst the youngest of the wives claps his cheek, 
and the others present before him a " Shadow-play," — a 
merry comedy which the Turks favor in their houses, with 
Karagof, and Hadschi Aiwat. 1 Amongst the graves under 
the black cypresses, the old man thinks of life — and life is 
enjoyment ! 

It is again still ! Footsteps are now heard, — no lantern 
shines ; no horse trots past ; it is a youth strong and fiery, 
handsome as IshmaePs self! The moon shines on his beam- 
ing face ; he flies on the wings of love. Yes, he is a Turk. 

There is stillness in the garden of the dead ! there is still- 
ness in the hut by the Sea of Marmora ; but at home there 
are two lips that meet as the mussel shells meet ; that in- 
close love's pearl ! 

1 The Turks have got the " Schattenspiel," from China. The chief 
personages in this play are Karagof, i. e. Harlequin ; Hadschi Aiwat, /. e. 
Pantaloon, who speaks in verse ; and Hopa-Thelebis, 1. e. Petitmaitre. 



246 A POET'S BAZAAR. 



XII. 

Mohammed's birthday. 

The fourth of May is the birthday-festival of the prophet 
Mahomet or Mohammed ; the evening before the festivity 
began, and the commencement is undeniably the finest part 
of it. That it was moonlight, and that the Osman police 
laws, even under these circumstances, command every one 
that goes out after sunset to carry a candle in a lantern if he 
would not be arrested, I did not regard as the most pleasant 
regulation ; but I was obliged to put up with it, for neither 
the moonlight nor the police laws could be changed. A 
young Russian, named Aderhas, and I went together, and 
without any guide, but furnished with lights in large, paper 
lanterns, we hastened away to see the illumination in honor 
of the prophet. We went through one of the narrow side- 
streets of Pera, and a sight lay before us, so magnificent, so 
beautiful, so fantastic, that the like of it can hardly be ex- 
pected to be seen in the North in an oriental dream. From 
the row of houses where we stood, and deep down toward the 
bay, there lay an extensive cemetery, that is to say, a wood 
of cypresses with large, closely planted trees : pitchy night 
rested there. 

The path, which the foot of man and horses' hoofs have 
formed, winds over rugged hills, then downward under the 
high trees. Sometimes it is narrow between the sepulchral 
monuments, and sometimes it goes over the ruined grave- 
stones. Here and there moved a red or blue lantern which, 
ever and anon, disappeared and returned to sight again in the 
dark ground ; there are a few solitary houses in the cemetery ; 
the light shone from the topmost window, or was borne along 
the open balcony. 

The bay, filled with vessels, could be seen over the tops of 
the cypresses as blue as a Damascus blade ; two of the largest 
ships were ornamented in the richest manner with burning 
lamps j they beamed around the port-holes, about the gun- 
wale, and the masts ; they hung in the shrouds and trans- 
formed them into a radiant net. Opposite us lay the city it- 



MOHAMMED'S BIRTHDAY. 2&rf 

self, that great, extended Constantinople, with its innumerable 
minaret?, all entwined with wreaths of lamps ; the air was still 
red from the setting sun, but so clear and transparent that the 
mountains of Asia and the eternal snow-covered Olympus 
were plainly visible, the east with all its broken lines like a 
silvery cloud behind the magnificent city. The moonlight did 
not diminish the lustre of the lamps, but only brought out the 
minarets, which seemed white stalks with colossal fire-flowers ; 
the lesser ones bore one wreath of lights, the larger two, and 
the largest three, one above the other. 

There was not a being to be seen near where we stood ; it 
was still and solitary. We paced down through the cypresses 
where a nightingale was pouring out its melodious song, and 
the turtle-doves cooed in the dark trees. We went past a lit- 
tle guard-house, built of planks and painted red ; a small fire 
was kindled between the grave-stones before it, and soldiers 
lay round about the fire ; they were clothed in European 
dresses, but their features and color denoted that they were of 
Ishmael's race, the children of the Desert. With long pipes 
in their mouths, they lay and listened to what was related ; it 
was about Mohammed's birth ; the nightingale translated it 
for us, or we should not have understood it. 

" La ill ah ilallah ! 1 The merchants met together in the 
city of Mecca for the sake of commerce ; there came Indians 
and Persians, there came Egyptians and Syrians ; each had 
his idol in the temple of Kaaba, and a son of Ishmael's race 
filled one of the highest offices, — that of satisfying the hunger 
and thirst of the pilgrims. Such was his piety he would, like 
Abraham, have offered up his son ; but the soothsayer bade 
the beautiful Abdallah to live, and a hundred camels to be 
sacrificed for him. La illah ilallah ! And Abdallah grew 
up, and became so handsome that hundreds of maidens 
died through love for him ; the flame of the prophet shone 
from his brow ; the flame that, from the day of creation, was 
concealed from generation to generation, until the prophet, 
Mohammed the first and last was born. The soothsayer 
Fatima saw this flame, and she offered a hundred camels as 
her dowry ; but he pressed Emina to his breast, and the 
i There is no God but God. 



248 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

prophet's flame vanished from his brow and burned under 
Emina's heart. La illah ilallah ! 

" Nine changes of the moon passed away, and never had 
the flowers of the earth exhaled such sweet odors as in these. 
Never had the fruit on the branches swelled so juicy ! Then 
the rocks shook, the lake of Sava sank in the earth, the idols 
fell down in the temple, and the demons that would fain storm 
heaven, fell like millions of shooting-stars, cast down by the 
lance-wielder • for Mohammed the prophet was born that 
night ! La illah ilallah ! " 

This story the nightingale translated for us, and the night- 
ingale understands Turkish just as well as it understands 
Danish. 

We passed under Pera's tower out to the cloister of the 
turning dervises ; and a large panorama was before us. The 
whole Sea of Marmora and the Asiatic mountains lay irra- 
diated by the moonlight, and in the middle rose Scutari, 
whose minarets beamed with lamps like Constantinople's. 
And here stood forth the Mosque of Sancta Sophia, with its 
four minarets ; and the Mosque of Achmet, with its six, each 
with two or three glittering wreaths of stars. They seemed to 
touch the gardens of the Seraglio ; extending, dark as a star- 
less night, down toward the Bosphorus. Not a light was to 
be seen in the building of the Sultanas along the shore, but 
where the Golden Horn terminates there was a flaming sword 
planted, which cast its red light over the water. Innumer- 
able small boats, each with red, blue, or green paper lanterns, 
darted, like fire-flies, between Europe and Asia. All the large 
vessels of war shone with lamps ; we saw every ship, shroud, 
and spar j everything was as if drawn in fire. Scutari and 
Stamboul seemed bound together by the beaming water and 
the variegated points of fire. It was the city of romance and 
fantasy ; a magic was shed over the whole. Only on two 
spots lay night with all her mysterious gloom ; in Asia it was 
in the large cemetery behind Scutari, and in Europe it was in 
the gardens of the Seraglio. Night and dreams were in both 
places : the dead heroes' dreams are of the women of para- 
dise. In the Seraglio's night they dream of the earth, and 
they are there young and beautiful as their heavenly sisters. 



MOHAMMED'S BIRTHDAY, 



249 



There was a throng of Greeks, Jews, and Franks in the 
streets of Pera ; each had his lantern or candle ; it was an 
oriental moccolo ; but the dresses were far richer and more 
splendid than those we see on the Corso at Rome on the last 
evening of the Carnival. Lamps placed in pyramids, or point- 
ing out in a large M, the initial of the prophet's name, burnt 
before the houses of the foreign ministers. At nine o'clock 
the firing of cannon was heard from all the ships j J:hey thun- 
dered along the deep as if there were a great sea-fight. All 
the windows shook : shot followed shot proclaiming the hour 
of the prophet's birth. 

I fell asleep during the booming of the cannon, and awoke 
early in the morning with the same thunder. Merry music of 
Rossini and Donizetti arose to me from the streets. The 
troops marched away to be drawn up between the Seraglio and 
the Mosque of Achmet, whither the Sultan was to go in great 
state. 

The Danish Consul, Romani, an Italian, came to fetch me. 
A young Turk, with pistols in his belt, and bearing two long 
tobacco-pipes, went before us. An old Armenian, in a dark 
blue fluttering caftan, and his black vase-shaped hat on his 
shaved head, carried our cloaks behind us ; and thus we 
strode through the chief street of Pera down to Galata. The 
servants went in one boat, and we two in another. And now 
we shot over the bay, like arrows, between hundreds of other 
boats, whose rowers screamed and shouted to each other, that 
the one should not rush against the other's light vessel and 
sink it. The mass of gondolas formed a large rocking bridge 
at the landing-place of Constantinople ; so that we had to 
spring over them to reach the firm earth, which is dammed up 
with half-rotten beams and planks. The throng was great, 
but we soon came into a broader street. Here were people 
enough, but a good place, nevertheless, could be got. 

Large crowds of women veiled, went the same way as we ; 
and we were soon under the walls of the Seraglio, which are 
very high toward the city, and look like the walls of an old 
fortification. Here and there is a tower, with a little iron 
door that seems never to have been opened. Grass and 
creeping plants hang about the hinges. Large old trees 



25O A POETS BAZAAR. 

stretch their leafy branches out over the walls ; one might 
fancy it was the borders of the enchanted forest where the 
sleeping princess lay. 

We took our station outside the Mosque of St. Sophia, be- 
tween the great fountain and the entrance to the Seraglio. 
The Mosque of St. Sophia, with its many cupolas and addi- 
tional buildings, has, from hence, an appearance that reminds 
us of a large flower, with its many little buds about it. The 
terraces before it were filled with Turkish women and chil- 
dren • the shining white veils imparted a festival air to them. 

The fountain behind us is the largest and handsomest in 
Constantinople. But by a fountain we usually imagine a 
basin into which the water descends. It is not so in Turkey. 
A better idea of a Turkish fountain will be formed by imagin- 
ing a square house, with the outside walls variegated quite in 
the Pompeiian style. The white ground is painted over with 
red, blue, and gilt inscriptions from the Alcoran ; and from 
small niches, within which the brass ladles are chained, the 
consecrated fresh water with which the Mussulman washes 
his face and hands, at fixed hours of the day bubbles forth. 
The roof is quite Chinese, besides being painted in various 
colors, or gilded. The clove, the Turk's holy bird, builds 
there, and flies by hundreds from the fountain over our 
heads to the Mosque of St. Sophia, and back again. Round 
about lie a number of coffee-houses, all of wood, and with 
balconies, almost like the houses in Switzerland, but more va- 
ried, and more ruinous. Small patches of trees are before 
each, under which sit tobacco-smoking and coffee-drinking 
Turks, who in their various colored caftans, some with tur- 
bans, others with fez, may be said to curtain the houses and 
decorate the gardens. 

Between the fountain and the great gate leading into the 
foremost yard of the Seraglio, were two long scaffoldings of 
planks on tuns and tables, the one higher than the other, and 
both covered with cushions and carpets, on which veiled 
Turkish women of the commonest class reclined themselves. 
Old Turks, Persians, and a number of Franks, whose unveiled 
females attracted much attention, had their station on the 
higher part of the scaffolding. Now came several regiments 



MOHAMMED'S BIRTHDAY. 25 I 

of Turkish soldiers, all in European uniforms — narrow trou- 
sers, and short jackets, the white bandoliers across over the 
breast and shoulders, and all with red stiff fez on the head. 
The guards looked well ; they had new uniforms, stiff stocks, 
with collars, and wore on this day — for the first time as I 
heard — white gloves. Other regiments, on the contrary, 
looked quite frightful. I will not dwell upon the fact that 
there were all sorts of coiored faces, white, brown, and jet- 
black amongst them, but there were both halt and club-footed 
soldiers. The European uniform was too tight for them ; and 
so a number of them had ripped the seams up at the elbows, 
or cut a long gash in the trousers before the knees, that they 
might move more freely, by which means a completely naked 
elbow stuck out, or during the march a red or black knee con- 
tinually peeped out of the blue trousers. One regiment, 
which I will call the bare-legged, excelled in particular, — for 
some of them had but one boot and one shoe ; others were 
quite bare-legged, in slippers, and amongst them there were 
slippers of all colors. They all entered the Seraglio to 
clanging music ; and after having passed by the Sultan, they 
returned, and placed themselves in a rank on each side of the 
street. Ethiopians and Bulgarians stood side by side ; the 
Bedouin was neighbor to the herdsman's son from the Balkan 
Mountains. 

The procession was to commence at nine o'clock ; but it 
was almost twelve before it pleased the Sultan to set out from 
the Seraglio. The sun burnt with the warmth of summer. 
One cup of coffee after the other was drunk. The scaffolding 
fell down two or three times, and all the Turkish women 
rolled in a heap together. We had a tedious time of it. 
Some years ago it was the custom that the heads of all those 
who were executed in the yard of the Seraglio should be 
thrown out into this place for the dogs ; now there was noth- 
ing of the kind. Young Turks, who knew a little French or 
Italian, entered into conversation with us and the other 
Franks, and showed the greatest willingness to explain to us 
whatever appeared to attract our attention. 

Below the walls of the Seraglio lay extended the sunlit Sea 
of Marmora, with its white sails, and Asia's mountains shin- 



252 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

ing with their snowy tops high in the clear blue-green air. A 
young Turk, who, as he told me, was born on the shores of 
the Euphrates, said that the sky there often shone more green 
than blue. 

The firing of cannon was now heard in the garden of the 
Seraglio, and the procession began. First came a band of 
music on horseback ; even the cymbal player, and he with the 
great drum, sat on horseback. The bridle hung loose around 
the animal's neck whilst the cymbals glittered in the sun. 
Then came the guards, who, in truth, looked as soldierly as 
any guards in Christendom. Then came a troop of splendid 
horses, all without riders, but ornamented with beautiful shab- 
racks, red, blue, and green, and all as if sewed over with brill- 
iants. The horses seemed to dance ; they threw up their 
necks proudly ; and the long mane, the red nostrils, trembled 
like the mimosa leaf, and an intellectual soul shone in the 
eye. 

A crowd of young officers on horseback followed, all in Eu- 
ropean dresses, with surtout and fez. Men in office, both 
civil and military, all in the same garb, came next ; and then 
the Grand Vizier, a man with a large white beard. 

Bands of music were stationed in different parts of the 
street ; the one relieved the other. They played pieces from 
Rossini's " William Tell." Suddenly they ceased, and the 
young Sultan's favorite march began : it is composed by Doni- 
zetti's brother, who is appointed leader of the bands here. 
The Sultan approached ; before him was led a troop of Ara- 
bian horses, with still more magnificent shabracks than those 
we had before seen. Rubies and emeralds formed bows by the 
horses' ears ; the morocco leather bridles were covered with 
glittering stones, and the saddles and cloths embroidered with 
pearls and jewels. It was a magnificence such as the geni of 
the lamp had created for Aladdin. 

Surrounded by a large company of young men, all on foot, 
and handsome as if they were oriental women who had ven- 
tured out unveiled, and each with a green feather-fan in his 
hand, sat the young Sultan, Abdul Meschid, then nineteen 
years of age, on a beautiful Arabian horse. He wore a green 
surtout, buttoned over the breast, and without any sort of or- 



VISIT AND DEPARTURE. 253 

nament, if we except a large jewel, and bird-of-paradise feather, 
fixed in his red fez. He looked very pale and thin ; had fea- 
tures that betrayed suffering ; and he fixed his dark eyes stead- 
fastly on the spectators, particularly on the Franks. We took 
our hats off, and saluted him. The soldiers cried aloud : " Long 
live the Emperor ! " But he made not the least response to 
the greeting. " Why does he not salute us ? " I asked of a 
young Turk by my side. " He saw that we took our hats 
off!" "He regarded you!" answered the Turk. "He 
looked very closely at you ! " We were to be satisfied with 
that \ it was as good as the best salutation. I told the Turk 
that all the Frankish princes saluted with the head uncovered, 
as we greeted him. It appeared to him like the tale of a 
traveller. The Pashas and other great men of the empire 
followed next ; then Frankish officers in the Turkish service ; 
and then a crowd of Turks and women closed the procession. 
There was a crowd and mud ! Half-naked street-boys, with 
torn and worn turbans j old beggar-wives, veiled with rags ; 
men, in morocco slippers, and parti-colored trousers, forced 
their way through the throng screaming. They bellowed out 
" Allah Ekber " (God is great ! ) when the soldiers directed 
the butt end of their muskets against them. The whole street 
was a variegated river of fez, turban, and veil ; and on both 
sides waved the shining bayonets, like the reeds and plants 
on the shores of the river. Whenever the Franks desired to 
pass through the ranks of the military, the officers came di- 
rectly, with the greatest civility, and effected a passage ; they 
drove their brother believers aside, who stared at the honored 
Franks, as they repeated the exclamation, " Allah Ekber ! " 



XIII. 

VISIT AND DEPARTURE. 

I was furnished in Athens with several letters, which made 
my stay in Pera extremely pleasant. I must particularly men- 
tion the Austrian Internuncio, Baron Sturmer, the Greek Min- 
ister, Chrystides, and our Danish Consul, Romani. 



2 54 



A POET'S BAZAAR. 



The Austrian Minister's residence consists of several build- 
ings, inclosed by walls, and with a large handsome garden, 
where, through roses and cypresses, there was a commanding 
view over the lower part of the city, the Bosphorus, and the 
Sea of Marmora. Here, in the lighted rooms which dispense 
every European comfort and luxury, I felt quite at home. 
German, French, and English journals lay on the tables ; 
there were music and singing. A great number of the diplo- 
matic world and several interesting families were present, 
with whom I formed acquaintance, and the hours flew fast. 
When the company broke up toward night, there was some- 
thing peculiar in the tour home. Servants were waiting in 
the corridor, with sedan chairs for the ladies ; the gentlemen 
were accompanied through the streets with torches, or else 
each one had his lantern with a candle in it. 

I first saw the interior of a Turkish house at Ali Effendi's, 
and the imperial interpreter, Saphet, who both live in the same 
building, which bears the name of " The High Gate." On the 
stairs and in the long passages, which were covered with rush 
mats, there was a swarm of European and Asiatic Mussulmen, 
as well as poor women with petitions in their hands, whilst 
soldiers, with short heavy sabres, walked about. Every one 
that came had to take off his boots or shoes, and put on slip- 
pers. 

Armed servants stood guard before the entrance, which was 
covered with long carpets. In the room there was a divan 
along the walls ; this was the principal piece of furniture. Ali 
Effendi entered into conversation with me about Lamartine's 
" Travels in the East," and asked me if I intended to describe 
my stay, and what impression the sight of Constantinople 
had made on me. I told him that I thought the situation the 
finest in the world ; that the view far surpassed that of Na- 
ples, but that we had a city in the North, which offered some- 
thing to the spectator akin to Constantinople. And I de- 
scribed Stockholm to him, which, seen from the Mosebank, 
has something of the appearance that Constantinople presents 
from the tower of Pera, out toward "the sweet waters." That 
part of Stockholm, which is called Sodermalmen, shows us red 
painted, wooden houses, cupolas on the churches, pine-trees, 



VISIT AND DEPARTURE. 255 

and hanging birches, — all is Turkish ; the minarets alone 
are wanting. 

During the course of conversation, he asked me how many 
days' journey Stockholm was from the capital of my native 
land, and what difference there was in the languages of the 
two countries. Saphet Effendi spoke but little, yet he was 
highly attentive, and, as it seemed, quite Europeanized. Thick 
coffee and pipes, with good tobacco, were presented. I, who 
never smoke tobacco, was obliged, for politeness' sake, to 
take a pipe in my mouth ; and this was the only unpleasant 
thing in " The High Gate." 

Romani told me that, I had a fellow-countryman in Pera, a 
shoemaker from Copenhagen, who was married and settled 
there, and that his name was Herr Langsch, a complete Dan- 
ish name, as he said ; but this I denied, and begged him to 
conduct me to the man's house. We entered one of the most 
frequented streets of Pera, and there hung over a door a real 
Danish sign with a large boot, and underneath was written 
the name " Lange." We entered the shop. " God dag ! jeg 
har nok her m Landsmand 7" — "Good day, I have a coun- 
tryman here, I see," said I ; and the man sprang up from his 
stool with a face beaming with joy. I shook hands with him, 
and we were soon deep in a Danish conversation. He told 
me that it was nine years since he had left Denmark ; he had 
travelled through the whole of Hungary and Wallachia ; had 
worked long in Galitz, and had there married a Wallachian 
girl ; they had a few years before come to Pera, where they 
lived well, and gained a good livelihood ; he kept several 
workmen, and was able to lay money by, so that he might 
once again go home to Denmark, and then return to Turkey, 
where he had succeeded so well. He bade me greet his 
father, brothers, and sisters when I returned to Copenhagen. 
His father, he told me, was also a shoemaker. 

Our Danish Minister, Chamberlain Hiibsch, who was born 
in Constantinople and has always resided there, has his resi- 
dence in Bujukdere, which is situated at no great distance 
from the Black Sea. A visit to him is always a little journey 
from Pera, but it can be very conveniently managed in a boat 
down the Bosphorus. Hiibsch was so obliging as to come to 



2^6 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

fetch me to pass a few days with him ; but the Greek Minister 
Chrystides had invited me the same day to dine with him, as 
there would be several Greeks at his house in whom I took 
much interest ; and time and circumstances did not permit 
me to make the excursion afterward ; for the Austrian steam- 
vessel which sails from Constantinople over the Black Sea, 
and is in connection with the steamers on the Danube, was 
just going at that time, so that I should thereby have an 
opportunity of seeing a great part of Bulgaria, Wallachia, 
Servia, and Hungary, a passage which, in anticipation, inter- 
ested me in a high degree. But there was a rebellion in Rou- 
melia, and they feared that the movement would extend to 
the neighboring lands. The Austrian post which goes by way 
of Belgrade to Constantinople, had not arrived for three whole 
weeks \ people were sure that the post-courier had been mur- 
dered or imprisoned. No one here knew the particulars, no 
measures had been taken ; the Austrian and Russian Minis- 
ters sent estafettes to Adrianople and Balkan ; the news they 
received was highly imperfect, but it was certain that the 
Turkish tax-collectors' harshness and injustice had caused 
the Christian families in Nissa and Sophia to revolt. It was 
said that during the Greek's Easter the Turks had forced 
their way into the churches, and there grossly ill-treated 
women ; above two thousand were said to have been mur- 
dered. 

One can make the voyage from Constantinople over the 
Black Sea and up the Danube to Vienna every tenth day ; but 
as matters now stood, it was to be feared that the longer the 
voyage was put off, the more uncertain it became whether it 
could be made at all, and whether I should not be obliged to 
return, via Greece and Italy. In the hotel where I had put up, 
there were two Frenchmen and an Englishman, whom I had 
agreed to accompany in the voyage up the Danube to Vienna, 
but they now quite gave it up, and chose to return home by way 
of Italy ; they regarded the Danube voyage as a completely 
foolish undertaking, and had, as they said, been confirmed 
in that opinion by good authorities. They thought that the 
rebellious Bulgarians would scarcely respect the Austrian flag, 
and that if we were not killed, we should at least expose our- 
selves to a hundred annoyances. 



VISIT AND DEPARTURE. 



257 



I confess I passed an extremely unquiet and painful night, 
for I could not decide on the course I should take ; on the 
evening of the next day I must be on board, if I meant to go 
by this vessel. Fear of the many dangers, which, according 
to every one's account, were approaching, but, on the other 
hand, my burning desire to see something new and interest- 
ing, set my blood in a fever. I went to Baron Sturmer early 
next morning, explained my case to him, and begged his ad- 
vice. He said that a Russian courier had arrived the evening 
before, who had passed through the part of the country we 
must traverse to reach the Danube from the Black Sea, but 
that no disturbance was visible there ; he added, that two Aus- 
trian officers, Colonel Philippovich and Major Tratner, who 
were both returning home from the campaign in Syria, and 
whom I already knew from having dined with them in his 
house, were just going to make the home voyage up the Dan- 
ube with the vessel that was to start early next morning. All 
the dispatches and letters, as well as a considerable sum of 
money, as the post could not go, were committed to the care 
of Colonel Philippovich, who, in the event of the worst, could; 
demand all necessary protection, so that I could join these 
gentlemen. 

The voyage was therefore now fixed, and from that moment 
all fear was gone. The same hour, news arrived in Pera 
which immediately supplanted the general conversation about 
the revolt in the country ; it was the sorrowful account that 
the steamship Stamboul, the largest that the Austrian company 
possessed, had that morning, during the thick fogs which hover 
over the Black Sea, run against a rock twelve miles east of 
Amastra, and become a complete wreck, but that the passen- 
gers were saved. 

Toward evening I left Pera. From the high round tower in 
the church-yard my eye once more drank in that great and 
wondrously beautiful panorama of Constantinople, the Sea of 
Marmora, and snow-covered Olympus. 

It was the steamship Ferdinando the First that was to bear 
me over Pontus Euxinus ; it was comfortable and well ar- 
ranged on board, and in the first cabin there was, besides 
Colonel Philippovich, Major Tratner, and myself, only one 
17 



258 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

passenger, — Mr. Ainsworth, an Englishman, who had been 
sent out on an expedition to Koordistan, and had now just 
come from Babylon. 

I found a whole crowd of deck-passengers on board j Turks, 
Jews, Bulgarians, and Wallachians, who made themselves 
quite at home, boiled their coffee, and stretched themselves 
out to sleep. Boats cruised round about our vessel — ships 
came and went. There was life on the water, and a hum- 
ming, and whistling, and bustling in Pera and Constantinople, 
as if a crowd rushed through the streets. No, of such things 
it is only lively Naples that can give one an idea ! 

Directly over the dark cypresses of the Seraglio stood the 
moon round and large, but quite pale, in the shining blue air. 
The sun went down, and its red beams fell on the windows in 
Scutari. It looked exactly as if fire were kindled beside fire ; 
it blinded the eye at once ; it was quenched, and evening 
spread itself out over the clear surface of the water, over 
cupolas and minarets ; large dolphins rolled about close to our 
ship ; large gondolas darted like arrows over the bay from 
the Seraglio's side, rowed by twelve or twenty gondoliers, all 
with crape-like sleeves hanging down from their naked, mus- 
cular arms ; the quick strokes of the oars kept measured time, 
whilst a majestic Turk, with folded arms, sat near the rudder, 
elevated on variegated cushions and carpets, which hung down 
into the water. It was like a vision ! a scene in a fairy tale ! 
The stars twinkled, and the muezzin cried the time in hollow, 
monotonous tones from the minarets. 



XIV. 

THE BOSPHORUS. 

The Bosphorus is a river with the transparency of the sea ; 
a salt-water river uniting two seas ; a river between two quar- 
ters of the world, where every spot is picturesque, every place 
historical. Here the East pays court to Europe, and dreams 
that it is master. I know no extent of land like this, where 
strength and mildness are so united as here. The shores of 



THE BOSPHORUS. 259 

the Rhine in all their autumnal beauty have not colors like 
the shores of the Bosphorus ; the Rhine appears narrow com- 
pared to the bed of these glass-green waters, and yet I must 
think of the Rhine, I must think of Maelaren's shores between 
Stockholm and Upsala, when the warm summer sun shines 
between the dark firs and trembling birches. 

The sea's width is in most places not so broad but that one 
can clearly see everything on both coasts. This long stream 
winds in seven turns between the Sea of Marmora and the 
Black Sea, and almost throughout this extent the European 
coast looks like one city — one single street, behind which the 
mountains raise their heads ; if not proudly, yet always so 
that they may be called mountains, and on these the trees 
were as rich as if they were a garden — a real botanic gar- 
den ! Here are birches as in Sweden and Norway ; groups of 
beech-trees as in Denmark ; pines, plantains, and chestnuts 
as we see them in Italy, and cypresses strong and large as the 
cemeteries at Pera and Scutari alone possess; and in this 
green vegetation, the palm-tree rises with its broad capital, a 
monument that tells us where in the world we really are. 

The whole coast seems, as I have said, a town and yet no 
town. Here street alternates with garden, with cemetery, and 
vineyard ; here stands a mosque with its white, trim minarets ; 
here a dingy, half-ruined fortress ; there a palace such as we 
imagine one in the East ; here again red painted, wooden 
houses, which appear to have been brought from Norway's 
whistling fir woods. 

Let us now turn our eyes toward the Asiatic side ; there 
everything is just as rich, just as varying, only there is not 
that mass of buildings which makes us regard the coast of 
Europe as an endless city ; here the plains are longer, the 
mountains higher, and more branching. 

The fifth of May, the day of Napoleon's death, I was to 
pass on the Black Sea. There are more spirits' feast-days 
than those the almanacs point out as Sundays and holidays. 
Our own life and the history of the world indicate some which 
do not stand in the calendar. Often, on calling to mind such 
remarkable days, 1 have felt in a lively manner, how prosaically 
void they had passed away with me ; yet, this year, one of the 



260 A POETS BAZAAR. 

present age's famous days stood in a peculiar and holiday 
manner before me. This morning, at half past four o'clock, I 
sailed from the harbor of Constantinople through the Bos- 
phorus, and out into the Black Sea. 

I was awakened by hearing the anchor fall ; I dressed in 
haste, and went upon deck ; everything lay enveloped in thick 
fog, but it was only for a moment, for with astonishing quick- 
ness the mist rose to the summit of Pera's tower. This tower 
with Galata and Topschana lay behind us ; the large barracks, 
the high mosque in the suburb Fiindiiklu stood imposingly 
forth, with the whole Turkish fleet, lately returned home from 
Egypt, lying there. We glided close past ; Turkish soldiers 
and sailors stuck their heads out from all the port-holes round 
about : each of them could, in a few minutes, have told us 
more truthful things, and those more poetically than Piickler 
Muskau gives us in his far famed works ; but our steamer 
was on its flight ; the fog was also on its flight, sometimes 
touching the ship's chimney, and sometimes rising as if to 
change into rain-bringing clouds. There was a life and a 
movement over us, as if Darius with his army again passed 
over the Bosphorus in these misty figures ; there was a life 
and a movement about us with boats, — those which came 
from the vessels of war, large and well manned, and those 
which came from the shores, thin, frail gondolas, where the 
Turk lay at the bottom with crossed legs. But it was still on 
board our vessel. The Turks had spread their carpets over the 
deck : some of them slept, wrapped up in their furred cloaks ; 
others drank their thick coffee or blew clouds from their long 
pipes : the fog rose and fell as if the world had returned to 
chaos ; the sun now broke forth, and now again it seemed to 
have no power ; the ships lying at a distance had the appear- 
ance of shadowy forms : I thought of the phantom ship and 
the Flying Dutchman. 

Topschana and Pera seemed to be one city with Constan- 
tinople, and Scutari the suburb, which, with its white minarets, 
red-brown houses, and green gardens, lay in the clearest sun- 
shine, which streamed out over the whole Asiatic coast. We 
saw the charming village of Kandelli, situated on an eminence, 
the Imperial Gardens, the Grand Signor's extensive palaces. 



THE BOSPHORUS. 26 1 

What affluence, what natural splendor around the shores of the 
Bosphorus ! 

How often, when a boy, have my thoughts sailed through 
" The Thousand and One Nights," and I saw strange palaces 
of marble with hanging gardens and cooling fountains. Here 
such a one as I had then mentally seen stood before me in 
reality. It was the newly completed summer palace, on the 
European side. Abdul Meschid was the first Sultan who had 
resided there ; he had removed to this palace the previous 
year. It is in the oriental style, of great proportions, with 
marble pillars, and high terraces. 

This is the scene for a young prince's love. Here, to speak 
in the spirit of the Turkish poets, and with their words, — here 
the vernal season comes early and clothes the tulip in its red 
mantle, which the dew ornaments with its silvery pearls ; and 
the cypresses and plantains raise their arms, praying that they 
may shelter their young prince for a long life-time ! But what 
is a long life -time ? It is a happy life-time, and happy — yes, 
but what is happiness? An immortal name or happiness in 
love ? Ask the young ! Alas ! every one is not an Alexan- 
der, who can win both, and win doubly, by dying in the midst 
of victory. 

The palace gardens extend to the village of Kurutscheme, 
whose peculiar modern buildings alongside the water attract 
particular attention. One story projects over the other, sup- 
ported by slanting beams underneath. The room between the 
buildings and the water is in a manner roofed by the jutting 
stones. 

Several of the elder Sultanas live here; the windows out- 
side, therefore, are well covered with screens, which certainly 
do not want peep-holes, from whence the once beautiful and 
mighty can look out upon the water and see the foreign vessels. 
Alas ! each of these women was once a beautiful poem ; now 
they are forgotten, and cannot console themselves with : " Ver- 
gessne Gedichte sind nene / " (forgotten poems are new). The 
long silken eye-lashes, once a row of arrows which pierced the 
breast, now hang like weeping-willows over the eye's lake, 
the only one in which a beauteous star is mirrored ; and they 
draw the veil closer together, only not about the eye ; it dare 



262 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

be seen, and it sees. Heaven knows what eye we and our 
ship were reflected in as we passed Kurutscheme. The helms- 
man told us that the strongest currents in the Bosphorus are 
here. 

The delightful valley of Bebek, with its summer palace, 
opened to our view ; it is bounded by the dark cypresses of a 
cemetery. These few words, however, convey no picture ; the 
eye must see this valley which, like an English park in the 
brightest sunshine, displays a variety of green, such as cannot 
be mixed on the pallet: we must see these willows, whose 
gently-waving branches seem to play with their shadows along 
the ground ; these groups of leaf-trees, under whose shady 
roof the wild turtle-dove has its seraglio ; these rich green 
grass plains where the shining white oxen stand — white as 
the marble images of old — half hid in the high grass. Here 
are life, sunshine, and joyousness ; close by lies the bound- 
ary, the dark cypress wood with the dead — shadows and 
repose. 

We glided past the cemetery ; picturesque rocks arose ; we 
were on the place where Androcles, from Samos, threw a 
bridge across the Bosphorus, over which Darius led the Per- 
sians into Europe against the Scythians ; one of the rocks 
was transformed into a throne for Darius, from which he saw 
his power pass away; not a trace of it is now remaining. 
The holy Osmans rest at the foot of the rock ; the ground 
that the wild host has trod is now holy ; and the dark cy- 
presses stand guard around the graves. The fugitive birds 
of the Bosphorus, which the seamen call "the damned spirits," 
flew toward us, and were away again at the same moment. 

Here, on the Asiatic and European sides, are the mighty 
palaces, Anatoli Hissari, and Rumili Hissari, built to com- 
mand the entrance ; but the port-holes are walled up, the 
buildings have long since been transformed into prisons. 
The palaces, where thousands of Christians have languished, 
are now called " the Black Towers." The palace, on the Eu- 
ropean side, is singularly built ; the Sultan Mahmoud would 
have it built so as to form his name, as it is written in Arabian 
characters ; hundreds of Christian churches round about had 
to furnish materials for these inhabited ciphers; but no joy or 



THE BOSPHORUS. 263 

gladness has breathed within them ! death-groans have quiv- 
ered through Mahmoud's monogram. Even though walled 
fast with stone on stone, Time's strong finger will blot out this 
writing ; and where it stood the earth will bear spring's poem 
on her black table, sending forth odorous bushes, grass, and 
flowers. 

It is most beautiful here on the Asiatic side. Behind the 
gloomy fortress yonder, the valley, with " the heavenly 
waters," stretches into the land, — that of all the valleys by 
the Bosphorus which is praised as the finest, and whose nat- 
ural splendor has given the rivulet that runs through it its 
name ; but we glided too quickly past ; we saw only so much 
as one, by looking into the open eyes of a beautiful woman, 
can read of her mental loveliness. 

The large mosque of Kandelli arose before us, as if it were 
Achmet's church, borne hither by Mohammed's angels, that 
we might once more be refreshed by the sight of it. A little 
village lay almost concealed between gigantic fig-trees, from 
which it took its name, " the Fig Town." 

Sultanje rose like an amphitheatre between weeping-willows, 
plantains, and linden-trees, and mirrored itself in the still 
waters under the coast. The white, slender minaret, that 
which in reality pointed toward heaven, and that which on 
the water's surface pointed downward, seemed to say : " See 
not life only in the sunlight around you, see it above in the 
chasing clouds, and flying birds ; see it in the throng on 
the water between the two quarters of the world." And in 
truth there were life and motion here ! Large boats, with 
Turkish women enveloped in white, airy veils, passed over 
from the one shore to the other. One of the youngest women 
rose in one of the boats directly under our vessel ; she looked 
upward, and the Persian song about the cedar's growth, and 
the tulip's splendor, sounded in my ears. Who has not seen, 
on a pitchy night, the whole scenery around him suddenly 
illumined by one single flash of lightning, and all become 
night again ? But I can never forget the vision I now saw ; 
there came two flashes — each eye sent forth one, and then 
it was night. We no longer saw the daughter of the East ; 
but the poet has sung of her, even centuries before our time. 



264 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

" If she dries her locks with cloth, it then sheds the per- 
fume of musk ; if she wipes the tears from her eyes, then 
pearls roll down from the cloth j if it touches her cheek, it 
is filled with scenting roses ; and if she presses it to her 
mouth, it then incloses a fruit of paradise ! " 

I looked after the boat \ we were far away from it. The 
women in the white veils seemed spirits in Charon's boat ; 
and there was truth in the thought, for what we never more 
shall see is of the dead. She had thrown an orange into 
the water • it rocked like a star of memory that told us of 
this meeting. Long fishing-boats shot past large vessels com- 
ing from the Black Sea \ Russia's double eagle flapped its 
wings in the proud flag. Outside a fishing village — I think 
it is called Baikos — there lay huts rocking on the water. 
Around them was an extended net, in which they caught the 
sword-fish. I say huts, but we might rather call them baskets, 
and in each sat a half-naked fisherman, looking after his prey. 

On the European side we approached Therapia, in whose 
deep bay lay a few large vessels. A little boat, rowed by an 
old negro, passed us here. He had a woolen frock on, such 
as the Greeks wear • large silver rings were pendent from his 
ears ; but his head was only covered with his thick woolly 
hair. The boat was, literally speaking, filled with roses. A 
little Greek girl, with her dark hair plaited around the red 
fez, and a large gold coin in it, stood leaning against one of 
the baskets of roses; in her hand she had one of the Bul- 
garian hand drums. The boat rocked with the increased 
motion into which the rapid course of our vessel put the stream, 
and the little girl held faster to one of the baskets ; it over- 
turned, and poured out its stream of roses over her breast 
and face. She arose again ; and, when she saw that we were 
looking at her, she laughed and beat her little drum, then 
threw it into the basket, and held a handful of roses before 
her face. The boat, the negro, the little girl, and, as a back- 
ground, Therapia, with its gardens, buildings, and ships, 
formed a picture that deserved to be perpetuated. 

On wandering for the first time through a large and rich 
gallery of paintings, one picture supplants the other, and the 
Bosphorus is just such a picture gallery, with thousands of 



THE BOSPHORUS. 2 65 

beautiful views, such as only the greatest masters are capable 
of giving us. I, who tell of them, have only once in my life 
beheld these coasts, and then on a steam-vessel at its utmost 
speed. 

A larger and broader bay than we had yet seen, composed 
the foreground of the next picture. The summer residence 
of the Ambassador, Bujukdere, lay before us. I sought 
amongst the many flags that waved there for that of my 
nation — and I discovered it. I saw the white cross on the 
red ground. Denmark had planted its white Christian cross 
in the Turk's land ; the flag waved in the wind — it was as 
if it brought me a greeting from home. My neighbor, who 
stood by the gunwale, pointed to the large aqueduct with 
the double arches, which arose out of the deep green valley. 
Another spoke about Medea, who had been here where the 
seamen now drew their boats up under the high plantains ; 
but my eye and my thoughts were only with the Danish flag, 
which I now saw for the first time during all my travels, and 
which awoke remembrances that softened the heart, and sank 
mildly into the soul. 

What imaginable softness or beauty could the shores of the 
Bosphorus show more ? As if they felt this, they suddenly 
changed into a wild and rugged scene. Yellowish, split stone 
blocks stood up out of the water ; batteries, erected to protect 
the Bosphorus against the incursions of the Cossacks, strength- 
ened the savage prospect. The 'tower, higher up, is called 
Ovid's tower, and the legend states, but falsely, that it was here 
the poet was confined, — imprisoned by the Black Sea. The 
tower is now a ruin, which, when the sun is down, is used as a 
light-house. Large torches are lighted ; the red flame shines 
for the ships on the Black Sea. 

Another small extent of land on the Asiatic side is beauti- 
fully green ; but where the shores approach nearest each other, 
the wild rocky scenery soon stands boldly forth on both sides. 
The Bithynian chain of mountains in Asia, and the Thracian 
in Europe, end here. No more the path winds along the wa- 
ter side ; the wild goats climb up the uncouth rocks. The 
Black Sea lies before us ; and on the point of two quarters of 
the globe lie the fire-towers with welcome-flame or parting-star, 
just as the ship directs its course. 



266 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

Singular rocky islands rise near the coast ; they seem to 
have been dashed against each other • one block of stone ap- 
pears to hold on by the other. The legend says that they 
were once floating rocks, and that they crushed the vessels 
between them. When the Argonauts fortunately sailed past 
them they were first bound together. 

The sun shone on the bare stones, the sea lay a vast im- 
mensity before us : we darted into it. The fogs which, dur- 
ing the whole of our voyage through the Bosphorus, had risen 
and fallen at intervals, but yet had never hidden the shores 
from our view, now dropped like a curtain that descends before 
a splendid opera scene. At once the coasts of Europe and 
Asia were hidden from our sight ; the sea-birds flew in circles 
around the steamer's chimney, and darted off again : we only 
saw sea and fog. 



XV. 

THE BLACK SEA. 

As long as we were in the Bosphorus, we had only an eye 
to the charming landscapes, as they passed in review ; these 
now were ended. We appeared to hover amongst clouds 
that hurried with greater rapidity than ourselves over the 
sea ; there was something homely to me in these North-like 
fogs ; it was as if I was sailing in the Cattegat in the month 
of November. We were obliged to wrap ourselves up in all 
the winter clothes we had ; and the further we advanced the 
colder it became. This clammy fog pressed on us for half an 
hour, and then it passed away quick as lightning. The sun 
shone clear ; the air became beautifully blue, yet the water 
had not the blueness and transparency of the Mediterranean. 
The Black Sea has quite the character of our northern seas ; 
it has short waves of a close, sullen hue, lead-like when con- 
trasted with those of the light, shining Mediterranean. 

Our ship, which now cut through the waters that the Argo- 
nauts once sailed over, was neither in size nor convenience like 
steam-vessels of the first class ; and yet it would in Jason's 
time have been accounted a right royal bark — nay, have 



THE BLACK SEA. 26 J 

been considered a miraculous work. Elastic divans and con- 
venient hammocks surrounded a large ornamental saloon with 
mirrors, pictures, and books ; fresh Egyptian figs, plucked 
a week before, were set out on the table, with grapes from 
Smyrna, and wine from the far distant Gaul. Yet the mighty 
necromancer — the flaming monster, which bore the ship on 
against wind and stream, lay within the vessel, and from 
thence sent out its breath, like coal-black steam — a cloud 
that laid itself along the sea. Such marvels Medea could not 
create. The discoveries of our time stand above the mightiest 
witchcraft of departed centuries. Cunning and skill are no 
longer confined to individual spirits ; they extend to all man- 
kind. 

On we rush, sometimes enveloped in damp fogs, and some- 
times in clear sunshine. Besides the four previously named 
passengers in the first cabin, there was in the second and third 
another little company, who were going to Vienna. The most 
prominent passenger was Peter Adam, an Armenian priest, in 
a black habit, and with a hat as large as a knight's shield. 
He had not seen his friends in the Danube's imperial city for 
twenty-five years, and was now going thither for a short visit, 
as conductor of two Armenian boys — the Armenian Bish- 
op's nephews. The elder, Jeronimus, with a round, girlish 
face, was to study, and be a physician ; the younger, Antonio 
Maruz, extremely handsome, with wise, speaking eyes, highly 
characteristic features, and a certain pride in every motion, 
was to be an ecclesiastic : they both wore fez on their heads, 
and slippers on their feet. The departure from home was al- 
ready forgotten : the elder boy lay stretching himself along, 
whilst he smoked his cigar j the younger played with some 
pictures of saints. 

A young fat Jew who meddled in everything, a good-nat- 
ured young servant, and a seasick lady's-maid who remained 
in her hammock, so that we had not yet seen her, three Ger- 
mans, a young Turk, and two Greeks were the rest of the 
party, who were to make the whole voyage with us. The . 
others only went with us to Kiistendje and Silistria. We also 
got a tired flying passenger here, the same as in the Mediter- 
ranean : a little bird rested with us on the deck, ate bread 



268 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

crumbs, and drank water from a plate. Toward evening it 
flew away from us, directly toward the East. I bade it greet 
the mountains of Caucasus ; greet the wild forests by the 
rivers where the tiger quenches his thirst ; greet the city of 
Tiflis and Circassia's beautiful women ! I would gladly have 
seen everything in the East, but this time, at least, I could 
not. We steered toward the North, our wet, stormy way. 1 
The stars twinkled as brightly as over Greece and the Medi- 
terranean, but it was cold here. We might easily imagine that 
we were making a summer expedition to Spitsbergen, and not 
a voyage on the Black Sea in the month of May. 

At night I was awakened by their casting anchor. The fog 
was so thick that the captain, in whose thoughts the wreck of 
the Stamboul still lay, durst not sail longer. In the morning 
it cleared up a little, and we started off, but in a few minutes 
we again lay still. It was as if a thick steam swelled out of 
the sea ; large drops of water stood on the deck and gun- 
wale ; the shrouds were as wet as if they had been just drawn 
from the bottom of the ocean. 

At once the sun broke through the mist ; the coast was vis- 
ible, but low and uninhabited ; not a tree, not a sea-mark was 
to be seen : but the captain read on the flat outline of the 
land that we had come almost eight miles more to the north 
than we should have done. The vessel was soon turned, and 
it went over the green foaming waves toward a little bay. 
The anchor fell, and the sick lady's-maid then ascended to 
the deck, smiling toward the coast, which did not smile again. 
Farewell to thee, sea of the Argonauts ! If I do not bring 
the golden fleece of poesy, yet I bring that of memory from 
the East over thy waters. 

1 It is highly dangerous in winter and autumn to traverse this part of 
the Black Sea, in particular between the Bosphorus and Odessa ; many 
ships are lost : the winter preceding my voyage, the Austrian steamer, Seri 
Pervas, and a Russian, The Neva, were both wrecked here. 



THE STEPPE-JOURNEY. 2O9 

XVI. 

A STEPPE-JOURNEY BETWEEN THE BLACK SEA AND THE 
DANUBE. 

Kustendje presents a low coast, the declivities of which 
are a lime soil with shells ; not a tree, not a bush is to be 
seen. Here lay a few cottages without windows, with rush- 
roofs inclining toward the ground, and inclosed by a stone 
fence. A flag waved, and a group of close-veiled women 
watched our arrival. 

Our boat went on through a heavy surf toward the land, 
where some noisy Tartars received us. 

The landing-place consisted of fallen blocks of stone, be- 
tween which the people had thrown a mass of grass-turf to 
level it a little ; the wooden huts seemed to have been erected 
in the greatest haste ; the whole coast announced a desert 
where dwellings had been run up yesterday or to-day. They 
threw our luggage into a couple of wagons drawn by oxen, 
and we went toward the inn, — a very respectable place in 
this neighborhood, and particularly inviting from its cleanli- 
ness. A balcony with a projecting roof of reeds, led into 
the best room, which was appropriated to the passengers in 
the first cabin. 

Whilst the dinner was preparing, we sauntered through the 
town. 

Kustendje was completely destroyed by the Russians in 
1809 ; everything appeared as if this destruction had taken 
place a few weeks ago ; miserable, half-fallen-down houses 
formed the main street, which was pretty broad ; here and 
there lay columns of marble and gray stone that seemed to 
belong to a former period. On several of the houses, the 
roof or projecting story was supported by a wooden beam 
resting on an antique marble capital. The minaret on the 
only and half-ruined mosque in the town was built of planks, 
and whitewashed. A coffee-house was not wanting ; but its 
appearance, like that of the guests, was extremely wretched. 
Here lay a few Turks on the jutting balcony ; they smoked 
their pipes, drank their coffee, and appeared not to take any 
notice of us strangers. 



2 70 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

A couple of terribly ragged men, with long beards, turban, 
caftan, and morocco slippers, came along the street, and gath- 
ered sweepings for fuel, as wood is not to be found at less than 
many miles' distance. 

Close by the town were some considerable remains of 
Trajan's walls, which are said to have extended from Kiis- 
tendje along the Black Sea to the Danube. As far as we 
could see around, we could discern nothing but sea or an im- 
mense steppe, not a house, not the smoke from a herdsman's 
fire ; no herds of cattle, no living object ; all was an inter- 
minable green field. Near the town were some few spots 
without any fence, where the corn was growing no higher than 
the grass, and of the same color. 

I bent my steps to the sea, close by which, directly under 
the declivity, a dead stork was the first thing my eye fell 
upon ; it lay with one wing stretched out, and the neck bent ; 
I became quite melancholy on seeing it. The stork has 
always been the most interesting of all birds to me ; it has 
occupied my thoughts when a child ; it haunts my novels and 
tales ; and it was now the first thing I saw as I was wending 
homeward by sea. It had just reached these coasts, and 
there died. A superstitious thought crossed my mind, — and 
no one can certainly say that in his whole life he has been 
free from superstition, — perhaps I also shall just reach across 
the sea, and my life's career is ended. 

As I regarded the bird, the wet fog came rapidly on over 
sea and shore, so thick and close that I feared I should 
not be able to find my way back to the inn. I could not 
see four paces before me, but went in a straight direction j 
climbed over a stone fence, and so came by quite another but 
shorter way to the inn, where an excellent meal awaited me ; 
so well prepared, that if all my readers cry out : " What ! 
shall we now have a description of the dinner ? " they must, 
nevertheless, hear it. The viands were excellent, as was 
all beside, and — as we learned the day after — so incred- 
ibly cheap that none of us had ever before experienced a 
like tenderness to our pockets. We wrote down the host 
and hostess' name, and promised to praise and extend their 
inn as far as we could. I will do my part thereto, and 



A STEPPE-JOURNEY. 27 I 

therefore beg to state, that the man is an Austrian, his name, 
Thomas Radicsevitch, and he lives at the corner of the Black 
Sea! 

After dinner, our luggage was packed in large wagons, 
made entirely of wood, to be sent off to the Danube ; and as 
they were drawn by oxen, they said it would occupy the whole 
afternoon, night, and the following day to reach Czerna-Woda ; 
that we must stay in Kiistendje that night, and that by starting 
in the morning we should arrive the same time as the luggage. 
Wallachian peasants, clothed in short sheepskin cloaks, and 
with black felt hats, the immense brims of which literally 
hung like an umbrella over their shoulders and backs, accom- 
panied the wagons. They assured us that the country was 
perfectly quiet, and that we should meet none on our steppe- 
journey but Wallachian nomads. 

A thick, damp fog poured forth again from the sea over the 
whole neighborhood ; the loaded wagons, which now drove 
away, disappeared, as in a cloud, at a few paces from us, and 
it was as cold as in the midst of the ocean. 

Mine host told us about these severe changes in the air ; of 
the terrible storms of the previous winter, and of the cold. 
The ice had lain for several miles out into the sea, and they 
could drive on it from Kiistendje down to Warna. He told 
us about the snow-storm which drove the herdsmen with their 
flocks over the steppe ; and about the wild dogs, of which we 
saw several. Whole packs of these howling animals pass 
through Bulgaria and Roumelia, particularly in the winter sea- 
son. They often meet with the wolves, and then the combat 
is equally severe on both sides. It sometimes happens that a 
she-wolf gets mixed with the dogs, and then she is obliged to 
keep with them. The young cubs are not to be distinguished 
from her own race, and she suckles them with the utmost ten- 
derness ; but, when they are a few days old, she drags them 
down to the river, and if they lap the water as the dogs do, 
with the tongue, she tears them to pieces ; for instinct tells her 
that they are the worst foes to her race. 

Toward evening the weather was fine. I wandered with 
Mr. Ainsworth along the sea-shore to collect stones and 
shells. We passed the dead stork ; close by it lay another 



272 A POETS BAZAAR. 

poor dead animal. I had seen it before, but did not take 
much notice of it then ; and yet it was, perhaps, more inter- 
esting than the stork. It was a large poodle-dog, certainly 
cast out of a ship, and driven on land here. A sea and 
air romance might be written about these two. Of the last 
we have none, but we shall have them soon, now that balloons 
are so plentiful. 

On our way back we visited one of those wretched Tartar 
cabins, with its rush-roof inclining nearly to the ground. We 
actually crept down into the room, which looked just like a 
large chimney. The walls were thick with soot ; everything 
above us was lost in smoke. An unveiled Tartar girl stood 
by the fire roasting meat on a stick. She was not exactly 
pretty \ her features were too coarse ; her eyes of too light 
a blue, but her figure and carriage were good. A painter 
might have got a subject here for a characteristic picture 
with a double light — the fire within the hut, and the evening 
sun, which shone in, blood-red, at the low doorway. 

We came out again, and the moon stood round and large 
over the sea. A bowl of punch steamed on the table at the 
inn. We passed a comfortable merry evening here ; German 
entertainment, German language and comforts, made us think 
that we were removed, by magic, from the East into the midst 
of Germany. Broad divans with rush mats extended round the 
room, under the windows, and along the walls ; on these were 
couches. I could not sleep ; the rush of the waves over the 
breakers sounded like thunder. I saw the wide and bound- 
less sea radiant with the beams of the clear, round moon. 

Our journey was fixed for the next morning early. Peasants 
came with lively Wallachian horses, which pranced outside 
our door. Two of them got loose, sprang over a stone fence, 
and struck out with their hind legs — such a screaming and 
shouting on a sudden ! I went, in the mean time, once more 
to the sea to bid it farewell. The open salt sea, which I love, 
I was not to see again before I reached the Danish coast. 

At length the procession was arranged ; our host, in his old 
Austrian uniform, rode before, and we followed at a rapid pace 
through the town out into the open boundless steppe. During 
the whole of our day's journey the lake of Kurasu, which is 



A STEPPE-JOURNEY. 2J$ 

said to be the remains of the canal by which Trajan united 
the Danube and the Black Sea, lay on our left. It would 
be an easy matter to repair the damage, yet it would be less 
expensive to lay down a railway on this level extent of land. 
The only difficulty in the execution of such a project might 
be, that which would be made from the Turkish side. It is 
said to have been a matter of much difficulty for the com- 
mittee of the Danube Steam Navigation Company to obtain 
permission to erect inns and offices here, that their travel- 
lers might pass this shorter way through the country. The per- 
mission, I was told, was entitled " For the Austrian Committee, 
family and friends of the Danube Steam Navigation Company." 

We went past some barricades from the last Russian war. 
They were quite undermined by the wild dogs, which find a 
cool retreat in these holes from the heat of summer, when 
the sun burns on the shadowless steppe, and warmth and 
shelter in the winter, when the storm and snow whistle over 
their heads. 

At length we reached a village where every house looked; 
like a dunghill on a heap of stones. To the left stood a few 
gray stone columns of a ruined cloister. We drove past,, 
and the green solitary steppe alone extended before and on all. 
sides of us. Three Turks, in various colored dresses, with 
turban and fluttering caftan, came riding in a wild flight 
directly toward us. It was just such a picture as Horace 
Vernet has given us. " Allah ekber ! " was their greeting. 

In the midst of the silent steppe lay a deserted Turkish 
burial-ground, with broken grave-stones. The turban was only: 
to be seen on a few ; not a cypress, not a bush cast its shade 
over the dead ; the village that had lain here was blotted out 
from the earth ! 

Even the most insignificant object awakens our attention. 
On a monotonous plain, a large eagle sat in the grass, and 
kept its place until we were within fifty paces of it. We saw 
herds of cattle, which at a distance looked like a whole army of 
warriors. The Wallachian herdsmen resembled wild men • 
they wore long sheepskin clothes with the woolly side turned 
outward, immense hats, or else a narrow cap of hairy skin. 
Long, black wiry hair hung over their shoulders, and they air 
iS 



274 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

carried a long axe. The sun burnt as I have never yet felt it. 
The warmth poured forth over us ; we almost languished with 
thirst. Most of the travellers spread their handkerchiefs over 
some little water-pits, swarming with insects, and sucked in 
the water. I was only able to wet my lips. In the midst of 
this warmth, in the burning heat of the sun, the Wallachian 
herdsmen stood in their heavy skin mantles, leaning on their 
axes — the poor nomads ! I heard their songs ; the melody 
still sounds in my ears. I must put words to it. 

" Thou green willow, with the hanging boughs ! where the 
Cossack leans on his lance in the Czar's land ; where the sun 
glitters on the Austrian sabre and on Mohammed's minaret ; 
where two rivers separate three emperors' lands, there stood 
my father's hanging wooden house amongst the rushes : close 
by grew the green willows ! I watched the herd ; I drove it 
into Bessarabia's steppes, solitary and alone ! But the night 
has stars, the heart has thoughts ! thou green willow with the 
hanging boughs ! 

" I watched the herd on the steppe, when the vernal sun 
broke forth ; but the clouds vanquished, the rain poured down 
in streams ; the rain became snow in the air, and the storm 
forged icy arrows that came darting against my face ; the icy 
arrows pierced through the sheep's thick wool ; the herd be- 
came shy, it fled before the storm ; we ran and we flew by 
day and by night wherever the storm drove us. The dead 
alone remained behind, thou green willow with the hanging 
boughs ! 

" Where is there shelter, where is there lee on the extended 
steppe ! The storm drove us away, herd and herdsman. We 
could not turn our faces against the mouth of the storm from 
whence the icy arrows flew ! Before us lay the sea under the 
steep cliffs ! What a flight, what a fright ! a driving snow, a 
flying herd ! But there were huts by the declivity, there were 
strong men ; the whole herd was saved, and I again saw the 
two rivers that separate three emperors' lands! thou green 
willow with the hanging boughs ! 

" The sun burns hot in the Turks' land ! I sleep in the 
caves that the wild dogs have dug ; I see strange men and 



A STEPPE-JOURNEY. 275 

women hurry rapidly past me ; they seem to be chased, as I 
was chased, in the snow-storm ! Do they think, what I then 
thought, and what I now think, leaning on my axe here in the 
hot sun ? No, they have none that resembles her I know, and 
thou knowest, thou green willow with the hanging boughs !" 

The poor nomads ! we hurry past them. A little khan 
erected for travellers stood very invitingly on the way : the 
coffee was boiled, the food,we brought with us was consumed ; 
we were ourselves both host and guests. No one lived here ; 
the doors and windows were locked again when we had rested ; 
and away we went in the same direction as before, with re- 
newed speed. The country now became more hilly ; and 
grass-grown Wallachia showed itself like a green sea toward 
the horizon. 

The hills we passed were covered with low leaf-trees, beech 
and birch ; the whole had a Danish character, wild and smil- 
ing. We were now in Czerna-Woda, which is an excellent 
sample of a ruined town ; the one house seemed as if it 
would surpass the other in the picturesque beauty of decay. 
On one, the roof consisted of only three or four beams, on 
which lay a few wisps of reeds ; another house, on the con- 
trary, had its roof entire, which extended straight down to 
the ground. A large swarm of children poured out of every 
door or rather hole ; most of the little ones were quite naked ; 
one certainly had a sheepskin cap on its head, but that was 
its sole article of raiment ; another boy had his father's large 
caftan about him, but the caftan stood open, and we could 
see that he had nothing on but that. 

The Danube had flowed high up over the meadows ; the 
water splashed under the horses' feet. The Austrian flag 
waved on the steamship Argo, which called us to our home. 
Within was a saloon with mirrors, books, maps, and elastic 
divans j the table was spread with steaming dishes, fruits, and 
wine : all was very good on board. 



THE PASSAGE OF THE DANUBE. 
I. 

FROM CZERNA-WODA TO RUSTZUK. 

IT was three o'clock in the afternoon when our voyage up 
the Danube began. The crew on board was Italian. 
The captain, Marco Dobroslavich, a Dalmatian, an excellent, 
humorous old fellow, soon became endeared to us all. He 
treated the sailors like dogs, and yet he was inwardly beloved 
by them ; they always looked pleased when he knocked them 
aside, for he had always a piece of ready wit that was worth 
the beating. During the several days and nights we were on 
board here, no one was more active or in better humor than 
our old captain. In the middle of the night, when they could 
sail, his commanding voice was always heard in the same hu- 
mor, always ready with a " blowing up," or a witticism, and at 
the dinner-table he was a jovial, good-natured host. He was 
certainly the pearl amongst the Danube captains with whom 
we came in connection. They constantly diminished in amia- 
bility ; more and more we felt our comfort decrease, and we 
naturally came more together, and in closer connection with 
foreign people, as we proceeded. As we got nearer to Pesth 
and Vienna, the company became so great, that one cared 
nothing about the other. But we were quite at home with 
old Marco, who treated us like part of his own family. 

The whole of our afternoon's sailing tour from Czerna- 
Woda was between flooded islands, where the tops of willows 
and the gable-end of a reed-hut stuck out of the water. We 
had nowhere yet seen the Danube in all its breadth. We 
passed a merry evening in the well-lighted, pretty cabin. The 
champagne corks flew. The taste of rye-bread in the genuine 
Tokay reminded me of the land of rye, the distant Denmark. 
The night, however, was not like the evening. Our blood 



FROM CZERNA-WODA TO RUSTZUK. 277 

flowed under the coast of Bulgaria. In these marshy coun- 
tries the summer heat not only hatches fevers, but millions of 
poisonous gnats, which plague the inhabitants of the coasts 
and the crews of the river vessels in the most frightful manner. 
Innumerable swarms of gnats had been generated during the 
few past nights, and they streamed in to us through the open 
hatches. No one had, as yet, suspected their existence ; they 
fell upon us and stung so that the blood stood in drops over 
our faces and hands. 

Early in the morning, even before the sun arose, we were 
all on deck, each with a bleeding and swelled face. We had 
passed the Turkish fortress, Silistria, at midnight, and had 
several Turks, deck-passengers, on board. They lay wrapped 
up in large carpets, and slept amongst the coal-sacks. 

It was now day. The islands of the Danube lay under wa- 
ter : they looked like swimming woods about to dive under. 
The whole of the Wallachian side offered a prospect of endless 
green plain, whose only variation was a ruined guard-house, 
built of clay and straw ; or an oblong, whitewashed, quaran- 
tine building with a red roof. There was no garden, not a 
single tree ; the building stood alone, like the circumnaviga- 
tor's ship on a calm, untravelled sea. 

The coast of Bulgaria, on the contrary, rose with its under- 
wood and bushes. The fat soil appeared particularly well 
suited for agriculture. Large districts lay completely waste. 
Thousands emigrate from Europe to America ; how much bet- 
ter a home could they not find here ? Here is fertile arable 
land close by " Europe's largest river — the highway to the 
East. 

The first town greeted us on the Bulgarian side. It was 
Tuturcan ; a little garden was planted before every house. 
Half-naked boys ran along the shore, and shouted " Urolah /" 1 
Here everything announced peace and safety ; the disturbances 
in the country had not yet reached these shores. However, 
we learned from the Turks whom we had taken on board the 
previous night at Silistria, that several fugitives had crossed 
the Danube, to seek refuge in Bucharest. On the other side 
of the mountains revolt and death were raging. 
1 A happy voyage ! 



278 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

Above Tuturcan, we passed a highly picturesque, hollow 
way. Luxuriant hedges hung down over it from the high de- 
clivities of red-brown earth. A troop of beautiful black horses 
were driven down here to the river to be ferried over. One of 
them, in particular, was noticeable, partly for its lively action, 
and partly for its jet-black color and long flowing mane. It 
pranced upon the slope, and the earth flew from its hoofs. 

Thou wild horse ! Thou wilt, perhaps, bear the young 
royal bride, be patted by her delicate hand, and thy shining 
black sides be covered with variegated carpets ! Dost thou 
dance because thou now seest thy new father-land on yonder 
side of the river ? Or wilt thou become the progenitor of a race 
in Wallachia, a hundred times as great as the troop that now 
surrounds thee ? Thy name stands topmost in the pedigree ! 
The boys' shout is for thee, thou beautiful, spirited animal ! 
Urolah ! Urolah / 

The next hamlet we reached on the Bulgarian side, Havai, 
lay like a charming episode in a small Turkish novel. Wild 
roses bloomed in the warm sunshine. Hedges, trees, and 
houses were grouped with peculiar beauty around the white 
minaret ; yes a novelist might be satisfied to lay the scene of 
his plot here ; and such a one may appear, for Havai affords 
materials for a novel and that an historical one. The deceased 
Sultan Mahmoud, father of Abdul Meschid, once made a voy- 
age up the Danube : a terrible storm came on and the vessel 
was near sinking, but they reached Havai. There the believ- 
ers' ruler effected a landing, where an odoriferous rose-hedge 
swung its sacrificial bowl for him. The Sultan remained here 
one night. Whether he slept well and had pleasant dreams I 
know not ; but that night is now a pleasant dream that is past, 
to the inhabitants of Havai. 

Not far from hence we saw the first water-mills. They 
stand on fast-tethered river vessels ; and, when the winter 
comes, they are drawn up on land under lee of the bushes. 
The family then sit within the silent mill ; the tabor sends 
forth its cracked sounds ; the flute, too, has one monotonous 
tone, as if they had learned it from the cricket. The family 
grow tired of their life on shore, and long for the vernal spring, 
that the mill may rock again on the rushing stream. The 



FROM CZERNA-WODA TO RUSTZUK. 279 

wheels clatter, life moves, and they themselves stand at their 
door and fish as the steam-vessel darts past. 

The sun burned warm, our tented canopy afforded us shade ; 
but the air was heated as in an oven, and its heat increased. 
Nothing refreshed the body, nothing the spirit ; all round 
about was the same green ; we sailed on and on, as if between 
parsley and asparagus beds. The warmth became more and 
more oppressive ; we felt as if we were in a bathing-room sur- 
rounded by dry steam ; but there came no cooling plunging- 
bath. There was not a cloud in the sky ! To such a degree 
of warmth my fancy has never elevated itself in my cool father- 
land ! 

At length we saw a town on the Wallachian side. It was 
Giurgevo, 1 whose fortresses were destroyed by the Russians. 
A number of the townspeople had assembled on these ruins 
of walls. There was a shouting and asking about the state of 
health in Constantinople, 2 and about the disturbances in the 
country. The sun was just going down. The church-tower 
of the town, which had lately been covered with shining tin, 
glittered as if it were of silver \ it affected the eyes to look at 
it. A summer-like tone of atmosphere lay over the flat, green 
meadows ; the marsh birds flew out of the rushes. Yellow 
cliffs arose on the Bulgarian side ; we steered in under them ; 
and, whilst we still beheld the shining tower in Giurgevo, we 
were under houses and gardens which form the suburbs to a 
considerable Bulgarian city, Rustzuk ; a number of minarets, 
the one close to the other, announced that it must be a real 
city of believers. The whole quay and pier were filled with 
men, amongst whom there was a strange movement. We 
were close to the landing-place, when two persons, both in 
Frankish dresses, sprang into the water, one on each side 
of the narrow bridge. They both swam toward land : the one 
was helped up ; but they drove the other back with horrid 
screams, and even threw stones at him. He turned toward 
our ship, and cried out to us in French : " Help ! they will 

1 From hence it is but six hours' travelling to Bucharest, the capital of 
Wallachia. 

2 There was no plague there at that time ; but it raged in Alexandria and 
Cairo. I heard by letter, whilst I was at Pera, that, in the two last named 
places, there died daily several hundreds of persons. 



280 A POETS BAZAAR. 

murder me!" A couple of our sailors jumped into a boat, 
and hauled him up. Our vessel turned off from land again ; 
all the crew and all the passengers flocked to the gunwale. 

Perhaps the troubles of travel were now to begin in a re- 
volted land ! How stood matters in Rustzuk ? A few mo- 
ments of anxious uncertainty succeeded. Some signals were 
made, and answered : soldiers appeared on the bridge ; a 
boat was rowed out to us with the petty Pasha of the town, 
Hephys. 1 A few of his officers accompanied him on board, 
and the manner in which they did so appeared singularly 
strange. One held him by each wrist, another by each elbow, 
and another by each shoulder. Thus they proceeded to the 
captain's cabin, in which they were served with preserved 
fruits and liqueurs. The Pasha afterwards visited the different 
cabins, accompanied in the same manner as before, only that 
two young Turks bore lighted candles before him. 

With respect to the fracas, it was merely a private affair \ 
the two persons engaged in it were the director of the quar- 
antine, a Turk, and the doctor, a Frenchman. They stood in 
each other's way in many respects, and as this was the case 
once more on the pier, they had pushed each other about, and 
the Turks took the Turk's part. 

The doctor had, in the mean time, been clothed anew on 
board, and under the Pasha's protection he left our vessel, 
which now lay alongside the pier from whence the soldiers 
had driven the crowd. Coal was now taken in ; it was a dark 
evening, only one lantern gave light from the shrouds. All was 
still in Rustzuk ; a houseless dog howled once ; the muezzins 
cried the hour from the minarets ; a single lantern moved 
through the dark, solitary streets. 

Our beds were hung round with green crape to protect us 
from the poisonous gnats. My company sat down, however, 
to play cards ; but I, who do not know a single game, could 
not. The chart of the Danube was my card ; I studied the 
imperishable highway to the East, which will, year after year, 
be more and more visited, and then bear on its rapid stream 
poets who know how to extol the treasures of poetry that every 
bush and every stone here contain. 

1 There were no less than three Pashas in Rustzuk ; the chief is Mersa 
Said, the next is Mohammed, and the third is Hephys. 



WE SAIL I 28l 

II. 

WE SAIL ! 

The morning is so beautiful ! What an expanse of green 
plain ! what a sweet scent of hay ! Are we in Denmark * 
See what a swarm of flowers ! see, grass-grown hills, and bar- 
rows as in Zealand ; the hand of man has formed them ! 
Everything is so pastoral, so Danish — and yet we are not in 
Denmark ! that green plain where the hay sheds its perfume 
is Wallachian ; the barrows and mounds to the right are in 
Bulgaria. Close to the shore there is a hut ; it is only a rush 
mat thrown over two posts ; the herdsman's family sit outside : 
the large clog barks at our rushing vessel. 

Here are fresh faces on board ; Rustzuk has sent us many 
guests during the night. What a mixed tribe ! The Turk 
kneels and says his morning prayer ; his brow touches the 
ship's deck ; close by him sits a Jew in coat of silver tissue, 
and purple-colored turban ; his yellow slippers stand before 
him ; he holds a parasol over his head though the sun does 
not shine on him ; he takes a little pocket mirror out, looks 
at himself in it, smiles, and now and then plucks the gray 
hairs out of his beard with a pair of tweezers. 

We speed past Bulgarian towns ! What is that called — it 
is Verdun ! When I hear the nightingale sing amongst the 
wild, blooming lilacs, I will remember its sisters on this spot ! 
Again a town ! it is Sistowa, high above it stand the walls 
of a citadel. Turks, with their long pipes, stretch themselves 
on the wooden balconies of the houses, and look with as much 
indifference on the flight of the steam-vessel as on the smoke 
from their pipes. Now a town to the right, a Wallachian 
town, with wretched clay cabins and a long, death-like quar- 
antine building ; it is Simnitza ! we write its name, and yet 
forget it ! 

What is that, shining before us! — what white slopes are 
they <5n the Bulgarian side ? They stand out more and more ; 
it is Danish ! they are the chalk cliffs of Moen that have 
come to meet me ! I know all their forms, I know that sum- 
mer-green high up on the white slopes! — yet they are only 



2§2 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

bushes. I see now ; Moen has woods ; Moen has the clear, 
the blue-green sea under it, and not these brown-yellow waves 
of the Danube. There lies a city up there ; it is Nicopoli, 
Trajan's city, Bajazet's trophy. We glide close under the 
white cliffs ; the captain points upward to a row of deep exca- 
vations in the slope ; they look like large embrasures in the 
walls of a fortress ! They are the graves of the ancients ! 
Who were the heroes and princes that went to dust here, 
whilst the unchanged yellow river rolled its waves against the 
base of the cliff? No one knows ! — now the swallow builds 
its nest in the heroes' burial chambers. 

Between the white cliffs and the green Wallachian plains a 
beautiful rainbow hangs arched high above the river which 
lifts its waves as on a lake. How glowing, how splendid ! 
Many a rainbow has stretched its arch here, seen by pashas 
and bojars: but it was lost; no painter or poet has seen it ! 
Thou magnificent, glorious, airy picture on the dark cloud ! 
would that I were a painter ! 

Are those summer clouds aloft in the horizon of Bulgaria ? 
I have often seen the clouds thus over the green fields in 
Denmark. Are they mountains with snow ?. We see the Alps 
thus from the capital of Bavaria. They are the Balkan 
Mountains ! The setting sun gilds the white snow-tops with 
its rays ! Glorious mountain land, thy greatness attunes the 
soul to devotion ! Close by me kneels the Turk ; he bends 
his face toward the ground, and mutters his evening prayer. 
The sun is down ! there is peace in nature, peace in my heart ! 
The evening is so light ! We sail ! The night is clear ! We 
sail ! 



III. 

A TURBULENT PASSAGE. 

It was in the middle of the night : we were all awakened 
by the ship's suddenly standing still, and loud piercing voices 
talking overhead ; the captain's was heard above the rest. 
Our lamp had gone out j it was quite dark in the cabin : we 
heard the plash of oars. Some one came on board, and the 



A TURBULENT PASSAGE. 283 

clang of a sabre was heard directly over our heads ! What is 
that? was the mutual question. We were at most only ten 
miles 1 from the district where the revolt was greatest when we 
left Constantinople ; had it extended here to the coast ? 

People came down the stairs. There was a clang of arms 
on the steps, but no one spoke. The first we saw was the 
captain with a lantern in his hand ; he was followed by a well 
armed Tartar with a woolen sheepskin cloak over his shoul- 
ders, and high miitze ; for the rest he was half covered with 
mud, and his hair was dripping wet. He stepped up to Phil- 
ippovich, and a conversation began in Turkish. We could 
half understand it by the Tartar's gesticulations ! He spoke 
of an attack, combat, and death ! He several times seized 
one of his pistols, or shook his sabre ; his eyes rolled in his 
head. 

It was not before he and the captain left us, that we got a 
clear account of the whole story. The Tartar was one of the 
messengers who carried letters and dispatches from Widdin 
to Constantinople. He knew that all his comrades had been 
carried off, and kept imprisoned in Nissa and Sophia; and 
had, therefore, with his escort, endeavored to avoid those 
places. In this he had not succeeded ; his companions had 
been shot, and he himself had reached this part of the Dan- 
ube, where he knew the Austrian steamer would pass at 
night ; here he had sat, and waited in the rushes. When we 
came he hailed us, intending to sail with us to the coast of 
Servia, to Radejevacz, and from thence try a new road, and 
more fortunate journey. 

We all rose with the sun ; we had passed Oreava ; flat 
shores stretched along both sides of the Danube. It was un- 
comfortable on deck ; the Turks had spread out their dirty 
carpets ; my Frankish comrades talked about animal-emigra- 
tion ; the passengers in the second cabin confirmed it ; and 
the captain nodded. I scarcely knew where I dare tread : 
there was a washing and rinsing of leeches in the forepart of 
the vessel. We had taken several French leech dealers on 
board at Nicopoli ; they had been to Bulgaria for their living 

1 Ten miles Danish, consequently between forty and fifty miles English ; 
the Danish mile is somewhat more than four English miles. 



284 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

wares, — millions of leeches emigrate annually to France. 
They had to be washed and taken care of, and therefore, as I 
have said, there was a washing and rinsing. The poor ani- 
mals were then put in bags and hung up on cords, so that the 
water might drip from them. Several of them crawled away 
down the deck or up the balustrade. One of the cabin boys 
limped about with bleeding feet, for a leech had laid fast hold 
of him. 

We sailed past the Bulgarian town Zibru ; the horizon 
closed with Balkan's proud snow-covered mountains ; a large 
flock of storks marched about in the green meadow, where the 
uninclosed cemetery lay with its white grave-stones. A few 
fishing nets were stretched out ) it was a complete, charming 
landscape ; but there was no peace in our vessel. 

The Danube was troubled ; its water rolled like waves on 
a stormy lake ; the vessel rocked up and down ; the seasick 
lady's-maid sat quite pale ; and leaning against the captain's 
cabin she whispered : " It is terrible ! it is just as on the 
sea ! " — but it was not like being at sea — here it was only 
a little rough. 

The city of Lom~Palanka, with a bush-grown hill and green, 
fragrant gardens toward the river, arose right nobly. Turks 
— real gold-men, according to the Turkish phrase, " to speak 
is silver, to be silent is gold ! " — sat as immovable as statues, 
and smoked their pipes ; they did not so much as turn their 
heads to look after us. 

The wind whistled through the shrouds of the vessel ; the 
waves rose higher and higher, as if they danced in a storm. 
I had never imagined that the waves of a river could dance 
thus. The lady's-maid was as seasick as it was possible to be ! 
Father Marco sang, and assured her that it was weather to 
have a christening in. He even hoisted a sail, which he called 
una fantasia, as, according to his opinion it looked like some- 
thing serviceable, whereas it was of little service. 

Widden, the strongest fortress in Bulgaria, lay before us, 
with its twenty-five minarets. The cannons peeped out of the 
loop-holes, and a swarm of men stood by the landing-place. 
Turks lay around on the wooden balconies, and drank their 
coffee ; soldiers marched up, to prevent any one coming from 



A TURB ULENT PASS A GE. 28^ 

our ship to enter into the town, and so bring a contagious fever 
or plague from that ever- suspected Constantinople ! There was 
life and motion amongst that many-colored tribe. At length 
we lay to by the low bridge ; a large flight of stairs was set 
up, and planks laid from it to the ship, so that we could now 
descend. Close by stood a little wooden house, in which was 
a drawer with fire and incense. Every one of us that wished 
to walk about in the town must first go into this house and be 
smoked through, so that the infectious matter in our clothes 
and bodies might be driven out. It was somewhat difficult to 
hold one's balance on the loose boards from the ship. The 
steps were also pretty steep ; but the good-natured Turks took 
us by the hand and helped us down. They then let go di- 
rectly, and we were smoked that we might not infect them. 
Philippovich, who they already knew was on board, and who 
was to have an audience with the Pasha, was not smoked at 
all, for it would have detained him. A fine saddled horse 
awaited him \ he mounted it, and darted off through the street 
to Hussein Pasha's palace, to speak about the measures that 
were to be taken respecting the post-couriers who had been 
taken prisoners, and about the further transmission of letters 
and dispatches. 

Hussein is Pasha of three horse-tails, and known by his en- 
ergy in the battle against the Janizaries in 1826, which ended 
in their total extinction. In 1828, he long withstood Diebitsch 
at Schumla ; but in 1832, he was less successful against Ibra- 
him Pasha ' in Syria, after which he got the Pashalic of Wid- 
din. 

We landed, and were smoked ; but all the goods, even 
woolen bags, entirely escaped this fumigation. When this was 
over we wandered about the town, which after the rain we had 
had was most horribly muddy. 

The nearest streets to the landing place were as one com- 
plete morass. In some places we saw a sentinal, who had 
posted himself on a stone standing out of the mud. I say 
posted, but it was in a peculiar position. Properly speaking, 

1 In the Revue Britannique, 1838, is a description of the Pasha's se- 
raglio. But we heard here that it is entirely fabulous ; and, as far as re- 
gards the exterior, we must remark the same thing. 



2 86 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

he had squatted down ; his naked knee stuck through a gash 
in his trousers. He held his musket in this squatting position, 
so that we could not refrain from laughing at him. 

In Widdin we all visited, for the last time in Turkey, a sort 
of workmen whose abilities have reached a very high point in 
that country, — I mean the barbers: they are really marvel- 
ous fellows. It is true, they almost cover one's whole face 
with soap, and play with one's head as if it were a doll's, but 
they have a dexterity and lightness almost incredible. One 
fancies it is a feather gliding over the whole face ; but it is the 
keen razor. They shave three times in succession, and then 
perfume the whole face. Besides, one need not now as a few 
years ago, fear that they will shave all the hair of one's head 
off, for they now know that the Franks prefer to save theirs ; 
they even begin to let their own grow. 

In the evening Hussein Pasha sent us a large bundle of the 
very latest German newspapers. Hussein takes the " Allge- 
meine Zeitung, " * so we begun to know how matters stood in 
the country we had passed through. A certain Mladen, and 
an ecclesiastic named Lefzkoweza, were at the head of these 
movements. It was a real spiritual feast to get these journals 
— the very best dish that Hussein could have sent us. 

We made ourselves quite comfortable. The vessel lay still ; 
it had become quite a dead calm — somewhat sultry, it is 
true ! How well should we not sleep this night ! 

Again disturbance ! We were awakened by a light, as if 
everything were in a flame ! It spread as if the fortress had 
fired off its two hundred and eighty cannons. It was a Bulga- 
rian thunder-storm ; old Zeus, or Thor, whichever of them yet 
reigns in the clouds, rolled away above us. One crash of 
thunder came with a deafening peal after the other. The 
waves raged, roared, and rattled in one's ears, as the river 
Danube rolled them before our eyes. The whole neighbor- 
hood every moment revealed itself as in the clear light of day. 
We were all awake, and on deck; the Turks alone slept 

1 We found this paper in Athens and Constantinople as well as here. 
My fellow-travellers had seen it in Jerusalem and Babylon. It is in 
truth a paper that has become Allgemein. 



SERVIANS DRYADS. 287 

quietly, wrapped up in their woolen mantles, with their faces 
covered. 

We had left Widdin, and lay out before the little hamlet 
Florentin. Miserable clay hovels stood close by the shore ; 
the ruins of a Turkish bathing-house extended into the Dan- 
ube, which showed us its first rocks at this place. 1 We saw 
velvet-green meadows, with groups of horned cattle and shy 
horses. This was a picture that must not be seen by day. 
No, but by the cloud-cleaving lightning — it is a picture 
painted on the glossy light ! The white minaret, the bending 
poplar, the frightened and flying horses, the swelling river. 
Words cannot give to the description what so animated the 
reality. 



IV. 

servia's dryads. 

A little river which falls into the Danube forms the 
boundary between Bulgaria and Servia. The whole of this 
land appears to be an immense oak forest. Yes, here is the 
great region of the Dryads, with mighty mementoes, and a 
people's deep songs. The green tree is hallowed in the eyes 
of the people. Whoever hews down a tree, say they, takes a 
life. The green tree seems of far greater importance to the 
man than woman is to him ; she stands in her own house, 
humble and serving ; she waits on her husband and his guests 
with folded arms, at the lower end of the table, ready to fulfill 
their wishes. So is it in the peasant's hovel, and so is it in 
the prince's palace. 

The different guard-houses lying so close that the soldiers 
can cry out to each other, and be heard, showed themselves 
directly on the boundaries. 

On the flat grass plain of Wallachia, with its clayey slope 
toward the Danube, lay a miserable clay hovel without win- 
dows ; it had a roof and chimney of reeds, but high and 

1 A Roman ruin stood on one of these rocks in 1839 ; now it has almost 
disappeared. The Pasha has caused the stones to be used in the con- 
struction of new buildings. 



2S8 A POETS BAZAAR. 

roomy, as if it were a little tower on the roof; peasants in 
long skin frocks formed the group here. On the Bulgarian 
side, where the scenery had about the same character as in 
Wallachia, stood a black house of stone, like our potato cel- 
lars. A stout Turk, in a jacket, with a carriage of body like a 
pug-dog standing on its hind legs, was the frontier sentinel. 
In Servia, on the contrary, were wood-covered mountains ; 
every tree worthy of inclosing a Dryad. The guard-house 
was a pleasant white house with a red roof; everything near 
it looked lively and green. The soldier seemed half warrior 
and half herdsman. 

" Farewell, Bulgaria's land ! " we cried ; and glided on 
under the Servian forests. 

The first town here, little as it was, with its red roofs, and 
clean exterior, carried us at once into the midst of Germany. 
Nine storks were taking their promenade in the green ver- 
dure ; Africa's sunny spirits had, perhaps, lately ridden on 
them into the town. 

There are songs on the people's lips, as numerous as the 
leaves in these woods ; and as the fertile green branches re- 
mind the Dane of his green islands, so these songs remind 
him of his land's ballads. When the Servian sings about 
Stojan who could not win the proud sister of I wan, we think 
that we hear one of our Scandinavian ballads ; we think of Sir 
Peder who cast the runes. The Servian Stojan wrote four 
love letters, threw one into the flames, and said : " Thou shall 
not burn, but Iwan's sister, her reason shall burn ! " The 
second he threw into the water : " Thou shalt not wash away 
the letter, but wash away her reason ! " The third he gave to 
the wind : " Bear not this on thy wings, but fly away with her 
reason ! " The fourth he laid under his head, at night, say- 
ing: "Not thou shalt rest here, but Iwan's sister!" And 
when night came there was a knocking at his door, and she 
stood there outside, and cried : " Open, for Heaven's sake ! 
The flames devour me, the water carries me away with it ! 
Have pity, open thy door ! The storm bears me away ! " 
And he opened the door to Iwan's proud sister. The Servian 
loves his trees as the Swiss loves his mountains — as the Dane 
loves the sea. The deputations of the towns assemble annu- 



SERVIANS DRYADS. 289 

ally with Prince Milosch under the canopy of the trees ; the 
trees arch themselves into a hall of justice ! The bride and 
bridegroom dance under the tree. The tree stands in the 
battle like a giant, and combats against Servia's enemies. 
The green, balmy trees arch themselves over the playing chil- 
dren. The green, balmy tree is the old man's monument in 
death. This woody land is life's green branch on the Osman's 
tree, but the branch hangs only by slender tendrils fast to the 
almost decayed tree. The branch has struck root and will 
grow boldly, like one of the first royal trees of Europe, if it be 
allowed to stand. This the Servian Dryads sang as we sailed 
past, and when we reposed on the grassy carpet under the 
screen of their fragrant fluttering hair. 

Above Radejevacz, where the Tartar Hasan left us, accom- 
panied by the best wishes that he might reach Constantinople 
alive and happily, begins the island of Ostrava with magnifi- 
cent woody scenery. It is twelve Italian miles long. 1 The 
first large extent of wood we had yet seen on the Wallachian 
side was spread before us here. Nay, there even appeared 
some cultivated vineyards. It was as if the woody richness, 
and culture of Servia cast a lustre, not only over the Danube 
islands, but even to the Wallachian coast. The birds sang, 
as I have only heard them sing in the Danish beech woods.. 
We sailed through a small arm of the Danube ; it was as if 
we glided through a delightful wood : the sunlight glanced 
between the green branches, and trembled on the rushing 
stream. A young Servian girl with red ribbons on her white,, 
open jacket, and shining coins about her red cap, stood with, 
her pitcher by the stream. She was a living vignette to the 
Servian song : " The young girl went to fetch water ; she bent 
down toward it, and then said these words to herself: Poor 
child ! O, how beautiful thou art ! With a wreath around thy 
brow, thou wouldst look still more beautiful, and dare to love 
the herdsman, — the young herdsman who goes before his. 
drove, like the moon before the starry host ! " 

With a martial people, where the woman is not an amazon,, 
but simply woman, she must be silent and humble ; the sub- 
ordinate situation of the Servian women does not permit them 
1 About the same number of English miles. 
19 



290 



A POET'S BAZAAR. 



to speak the heart's deepest voice. It reveals itself character- 
istically in all their love-songs. 

" Yesterday when we were in quarters, we had an excellent 
supper, and we saw a girl, so young and beautiful ; she wore 
tulips in her hair. I gave my noble steed to her, and she 
said to it : ' Tell me, thou brown one, is thy master married ? ' 
And the horse answered with a neigh : ' No, pretty girl, he is 
not married ; but in the harvest he thinks of leading thee to 
his home ! ' And the glad girl said to the brown steed : ' If 
I knew that it was truth, I would immediately melt my 
buckles and mount thy halter with them ; I would melt my 
necklace to gild thy pure silver ! ' " 

Prince Milosch has, during the last few years, collected a 
rich treasure of these songs of the country, — the lives of 
single individuals, and the whole people's heroic deeds. In 
the Servian's house, where there often live several married 
couples, but under one chief chosen by themselves, and who 
manages their fortune and house affairs, the merry music of 
the violin and bagpipe sounds in the evening. In every 
house there is to be found one who can play and accompany 
their heroic songs with the instrument ; in this manner the 
children learn their history ; in this manner the elders are 
strengthened in their love for their native land. They then 
remember their royal time, — Belgrade's founder, Stephen 
Dussan, Corbelitza, and John Hunyades. 

The evening was still and mild. The river Danube runs 
here in the same latitude as the Arno ; the stars glittered, 
and Servia's forest stood high in the transparent air : the 
night was so clear that we could sail on with confidence. A 
great distance was left behind when I came on deck next 
morning : we had just before passed the Turkish fortress 
Fet- Islam, on the Servian side ; the roof of the great tower 
had quite fallen down ; the laths only were to be seen. It 
was a miserable fortress to look at ; a part of the garrison sat 
in the holes of the wall, smoked tobacco, and stared after us. 
At eight o'clock we were at Gladova. The passengers and 
goods were reshipped in a large, handsomely painted boat 
with a wooden roof. Here begins the so-called " Iron Gate," 
which by most travellers is described as a part of the Danube 



SERVIA'S DRYADS. 29 1 

almost impossible to navigate ; there are strong rapids. Here 
are mighty whirlpools that have swallowed up boats, and 
broken vessels in pieces ; round about in the foaming stream 
are to be seen black rocks stretching their crushing fingers 
into the air ; but we can, however, pass through the " Iron 
Gate." I found the navigation between Orsova and Drencova 
far more dangerous. 

Our captain placed himself at the bow of the boat, which 
was dragged up against the stream by fifty or more Servians 
with a rope and iron chain, they walking on a pathway and 
hauling it along. A number of river vessels lay under the 
shore ; the poor Servians had to spring like gazelles from ship 
to ship, haul and haul, then jump into their light boats, and 
with the rope around their waists, row themselves and us for- 
ward. 

We kept close in to the Servian coast, for in the middle of 
the current there were several falls ; the water leapt against 
the bow of the boat. The coast in a few places consisted of 
low but perpendicular rocks, in which ropes were fixed like a 
sort of balustrade, by which our Servians in the small boats 
held fast and thus worked against the stream ; they then 
sprang again on land, and our boat went like a steamer 
against the rapid river. It did not look at all dangerous, but 
it was exciting. Old trees hung over the rocks ; the nightin- 
gales sang, and our large flag with the double eagle fluttered 
in the wind. The most dangerous part of the passage 
through the u Iron Gate," begins a little way above the small 
town of Gladova. All the passengers went ashore, and only 
the captain and two sailors remained behind. It was not the 
danger that haunted us, but it was the greenwood that in- 
vited us ; here it was fresh, balmy, and beautiful. Servian 
soldiers, who had accompanied us from Gladova, took care 
that we should not come in contact with the inhabitants of the 
country. 

The pleasure of treading on land after several days — the 
short visit in Widdin excepted — was a luxury, doubly great 
here in the midst of a fragrant wood on a grassy carpet 
swarming with flowers. We all plucked a bouquet. High 
cliffs covered with bushes rose behind the trees, the golden 



292 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

laburnums speckled the green woods. We came to a large 
tree, and they told us that the former Pasha of Orsova had 
taken his breakfast there daily, and then, not unfrequently, 
had ordered some Christians to be hung up on these very 
branches. Not far from thence stood a Cross ; it was the first 
cross in the open field that I had seen since I left Italy ; it 
greeted me like a dear holy sign outside the Crescent's land ; 
this green, these flowers, and the song of birds ! O ! it was a 
festive day in nature ! We wandered amongst Servia's Dryads ; 
our guard had enough to do to keep our party together ; one 
would have a branch with the yellow laburnum, another must 
gather flowers, and a third drink at the well ; and we durst 
not leave each other. We were obliged to keep pace with the 
boat, which, sure enough, got but slowly forward ; it rocked 
a little, and was now and then washed by a rough wave 
which it cut through. Herdsmen and women whom we met, 
fled from us, and regarded us at a respectable distance. 

We passed a sulphur spring ; a poor path led up to it ; per- 
haps in a few years a splendid watering-place will stand here, 
and the guests promenade under these leafy trees. Our brave 
captain sat by the rudder ; the boat rocked like a chip over 
surge and eddy, and the old man nodded to us when the 
water sprang into the air. The wind whistled in the trees, 
and the Dryads sang about an equally brave captain on a 
still more dangerous river, — that of politics : the Dryads sang 
about the land's prince, Milosch, the true Servian. Tree 
stands beside tree in this country as in the forests of Amer- 
ica; Dryad relates to Dryad what passes in the inclosed 
valley, and in the dark thicket. It sounds in our times like a 
legend, that on the verge of the plains of Hungary, close by 
the swelling Danube, there lives a martial and yet a patri- 
archal people whose prince watched his father's herds when a 
boy, and as a lad journeyed through the country as a commer- 
cial traveller. When black George broke the Turk's chains, 
he fought with the people for their freedom ; he was the brav- 
est warrior, and the most fortunate conqueror. Black George 
fled as a fugitive with the vanquished ; the young warrior re- 
tired with his heroes deeper into the dark rocks. The rocky 
cavern was then Milosch's royal castle ; there his princess 



THE PASHA OF ORSOVA. 



293 



waited for him ; there she herself roasted the lamb that was 
to be placed before him and his friends. He came, but as 
a fugitive • and daring as became a regent's spouse, as the 
mother of a hero's child, she stopped him, and asked if they 
must perish, if their father-land must fall, and bade him turn 
back — and he turned to conquer. Europe's princes have ac- 
knowledged Milosch as prince. 1 The Turkish soldiers and 
pashas in the fortresses of Servia are but a shadow of power, 
— a shadow wherein Servia's children seek strength. In Mi- 
losch's royal castle it is the Princess and her daughters who 
wait on the Prince and his guests ; they live in the Prince's 
castle as in the peasant's cot ; and the bagpipe and glitter- 
ing weapon are the first and most prominent objects we meet 
there. 



THE PASHA OF ORSOVA. 

Before us lay the Turkish fortress of Orsova, the seat of a 
pasha. The most dangerous part of the " Iron Gate " was 
passed ; we approached the first goal of our voyage — the 
quarantine. We again entered the boat ; the breakfast table 
was laid, a leave-taking toast was drunk to the Crescent and 
the veiled women. 

The Wallachian coast rose, like the Servian, with wood- 
grown rocks : on a projecting tongue of land to the right lies 
New Orsova with red painted houses, white minarets, and 
green gardens. The largest building, out toward the stream, 
they told us was the Pasha's seraglio ; the beautiful women 
behind the well-trellised windows regarded our gayly painted 
boat, and perhaps fixed their glass on us, — they certainly 
had one ; they saw what strangers came who would soon be 
inclosed like themselves, but in the quarantine, and solitary 
without love's communion. They saw us under the fortress 
which rises out of the Danube on the Servian side ; they 

1 Milosch was obliged to resign on the first of June, 1839. The eldest 
son, Milan, obtained the government on the eighth of July, 1839 ; now the 
younger son, Michael Milosch, reigns. 



294 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

saw their master, the Pasha of Orsova, with soldiers out* 
side the walls, marching down toward our boat, which now 
lay still. 

The Pasha, a powerful man about forty years of age, with 
blue military surtout, large gold epaulets and fez, greeted us, 
and conversed long with Philippovich. 

The fortress, which appears ruinous, greeted us with five 
cannon-shots as we glided past. We now saw the Austrian 
city, Old Orsova, and the hamlet of Xupaneck, where the quar- 
antine is held ; we were obliged to go quite past Orsova, the 
current being so strong, and it was at a great distance up be- 
fore they could cross the stream ; this, however, was but the 
loss of a few minutes. 

The landing place was inclosed with palisades, which 
creaked with the numbers of spectators that thronged on it, to 
look at us pestilential strangers. 

Large wagons yoked with oxen took our baggage, and were 
set in motion : the passengers followed slowly after, sur- 
rounded by soldiers and quarantine officers, each "with a long 
white stick to keep us at three paces' distance from them ; we 
cast a final look toward the stream that had borne us. The 
fortress lay in shade, but the trees, roofs, minarets in New 
Orsova shone in the most beautiful sunlight. A boat crossed 
the stream toward the Pasha's seraglio ; it was the Pasha 
who went to visit his wives. We went to our fenced prison, 
he to flowery terraces. The lot of man is different in this 
world — that is the moral of the story. 



VI. 

THE QUARANTINE. 

To lie in quarantine is to exercise one's self in the polypus 
department. Properly speaking, we all lie in quarantine in 
this world, until we get permission to make the great voyage 
to heaven. Poets are born poets, they say ; but there are 
certainly persons born to lie in quarantine. I have known 
travellers who lie a-bed until noon, and before they have 



THE QUARANTINE. 295 

dressed, dawdled, and fiddle-faddled about, it is afternoon ; 
then they must write letters, or note down what they have seen 
that same hour the day before, when they lounged through the 
galleries ; then they employ a year to see what others see better 
in a month ; but that is called being well-informed, not doing 
things by halves, making one's self acquainted with every- 
thing, etc., etc. I call these folks quarantine persons. Piick- 
ler Muskau relates of himself, that whilst he was in quarantine 
in Malta, he begged that he might remain there a day longer 
to finish his work. I am of quite a different nature ; when 
travelling, I must bestir myself from morning till evening ; I 
must see and see again. I cannot do anything else than pack 
whole towns, tribes, mountains, and seas into my mind ; always 
taking in, always stowing away ; there is not time to write a sin- 
gle song. I am not even disposed to do so ; but it will come, 
I well know. It seethes and ferments in me, and when I am 
once in the good city of Copenhagen, and get a bodily and 
spiritual cold fomentation, the flowers will shoot forth. 

Our entry into quarantine was a subject for a painter. 
Round about were wood-grown mountains ; and before, a flat, 
green plain, where the artist could place the large wagons 
filled with our baggage, drawn by white oxen and driven by 
Wallachian peasants in white jackets, and colossal hats hang- 
ing down over their shoulders. And then the mixed company 
of Turks, Greeks, and Franks : Pater Adam in his black dress, 
with a hat like a large shield, was not the least picturesque 
figure in the group. 

Soldiers accompanied us for safe conduct. Our entrance 
was the merriest thing imaginable : we saw cannon, naked 
walls, large padlocks, rattling keys, quarantine officers, who 
stepped respectfully aside, that they might not come in contact 
with us. The road, or so called promenade in between the 
high walls, was so blank that it excited a momentary sense of 
novelty. It is true, there were a few rose hedges, but the 
roses themselves as yet lay in quarantine in the green bud : 
every leaf reminded us of our quarantine flag. I will not 
complain of the lodging, but only describe it ; nor will I wail 
over the board, notwithstanding sour cabbage and Danube 
water, with a plentiful supply of fat pork to it, such as we 
get here, are not to my taste. 



296 A POETS BAZAAR. 

The whole building is a sort of box within box : the inner- 
most represents a sort of square garden, the most attractive 
object in which is a little summer-house of rough laths with- 
out paint, which the green vines have not sufficient courage to 
cling fast to ; four ranges of building, in which every window 
is double grated, surround this paradise, which one may ven- 
ture to see, but not touch ! Round about these ranges of 
building there is a large wall ; thus every little chamber within 
has a little yard ; the wall has another wall around it, and the 
space between is the promenade ! It is much more pleasing 
to read about than to experience it. The Englishman (Mr. 
Ainsworth) and I took up our quarters together in two small 
rooms. A table, a chair, and a wooden pallet, were the furni- 
ture assigned to each ; the walls were newly whitewashed. 
The sun shone so delightfully on the walls, that we were 
almost blinded with its brightness. For guardian we had an 
old fellow, Johan, who had been in the battle of Leipsic, and 
had been wounded there ; he slept every night in the front 
room on our table. 

The first day in quarantine goes on excellently well : we 
get a good rest after travelling ; the second, third, and fourth 
day, we write letters ; the fifth and sixth we become accus- 
tomed to the place, and read a good book, if we have one ; 
but the seventh day we are dis-accustomed again, and find that 
the seventh day, but not the whole seven days, ought to be a 
day of rest. I began to find it desperate. Two balmy linden- 
trees stood in our yard. I threw my arms around them so 
often, that at last I bethought me of climbing one. I did so, 
sat on a bough, and soon ascended to the next. From thence 
I could look over the walls, and see an entire side of a moun- 
tain, with wood and arable land, and between both was a little 
cottage : it looked like a little paradise — for there people 
were free. 

I could, from my green balcony, look down into a row of 
neighboring yards. Philippovich had planted a Turkish horse- 
tail before his door ; the brass button on it glittered in the 
sun ; the long white and red horse-hair fluttered about the 
variegated staff. Our leech-merchants washed and rinsed the 
black leeches which they had in bags and sacks. Bulgarian 



THE QUARANTINE. 297 

women lay in circles on their carpets, surrounded by children, 
and held large yellow umbrellas over themselves, to shade 
them from the sun. They certainly told little stories, for the 
children laughed, and the swallows flew about outside, and 
twittered contemptuously, — for the swallows here only trouble 
themselves with everyday stories. 

On the first days of our quarantine we had music, and fine 
music ; two young Wallachian artists, a flute-player, and one 
who played a glass harmonicon, gave a concert in their little 
prison-house : it sounded over the whole garden. Fellow- 
prisoners peeped out of all the windows, and at last they ap- 
plauded, for it was artistically fine. The flute-player breathed 
feeling and taste ; the tones refreshed us. One evening, how- 
ever, he played very merrily, " Enjoy life ! " and it sounded 
within these walls like mockery. But he might well play it, 
for he was going out next day, and we had still seven days to 
hold out here. 

But we could make promenades round the buildings, be- 
tween the high, white walls ; we could peep between the 
trellises into every little yard — read on every little black 
slate, written with chalk, the day and hour that the new comer 
was placed there, the day and hour persons were to go out, and 
how many there were in ! It was a lecture for fancy and the 
heart. Who was the stranger ? From whence came he ? 
" Where was he going ? Or perhaps it was a she ! Here was 
occasion to feel our common suffering ! But I durst nor quite 
give myself up to fancy and the heart, on this promenade. I 
was obliged to keep near my keeper, and be prudent, if I 
would not be exposed to a fresh term of quarantine. Some- 
times we met those who had come in afterward ; and then we 
had to stand close to the wall, so as not to come in contact 
with them. We had to look about us, and see that the wind 
did not bring a little feather over the wall, that might fall on 
our shoulders ; see that we did not tread on a thread that any 
one had lost, for in that case the quarantine was lengthened. 

I went this tour only, that my feet might not lose their 
habit of walking. No one walked here for his pleasure ! It 
was more than alarming ; it was almost terrible to meet a 
load of goods here ; if we came in contact with it, then began 



290 



A POETS BAZAAR. 



forty days' quarantine anew. There was such a heat between 
these walls, and in our little yard, that we were almost roasted. 
In the day I dreamt that I was within the leaden chambers of 
Venice, and at night, that I was in full life in hell. At that 
time, I knew by letters that Heiberg in his new satire * had 
spoken of the performance of two of my greater dramatic 
works. It had not occurred to me, as long as I was in the 
free, open face of nature ; but here, as I have said, in this 
hell, I dreamt that I was just shut down in that of Heiberg's : 
and there, just as he has related, they only performed my two 
pieces, and that was very agreeable to me ; nay, as a Chris- 
tian, particularly pleasant to learn, as he has also told us, 
that the condemned, after having seen my pieces, could lie 
down with a good conscience. Even there, at least, I had 
effected some good by my works. I heard, however, down 
there, that, beside my two pieces in one evening, they had 
also determined to give Heiberg's " Fata Morgana," as a con- 
cluding piece ; but the lost spirits had protested against it ; 
they also make their habitation too hot for one, and there 
must be reason in everything ! The devil was then obliged 
to be content with my two pieces ; but it is his determination 
that they shall be replaced by the newest, real, detestable 
comedies that Heiberg is to give us, with a prologue written 
by his intimate friends, which shall put the public in the way 
to understand and admire : after which the usual apotheosis, 
also by one of his intimate friends. See, this is how a man 
dreams in quarantine ! 

At last we were all sick, and the doctor prescribed a medi- 
cine which appeared to me excellent for Wallachian horses, 
but not for weak persons suffering from pains in the stomach. 
We were first to drink a large glass of spirits, and then a cup 
of strong coffee, without sugar or cream. 

The least varied life has, however, its great events ; ours 
had three in this place. One was a visit from the Pasha of 
Orsova. The bare arbor in the garden served as the saloon 
of conversation. Six soldiers, with bandoliers over their blue 
jackets, and bayonets on their muskets, together with the 

1 Poems : 1840. A book which I consider as the very best of Heiberg's 
works. 



THE QUARANTINE. 299 

interpreter, doctor, and servants, formed the suite. The next 
great event was, that we each got an old washer- woman, who 
was to wash our things ; and then the quarantine was over 
with us ! We got the keeper's wife. The old married pair 
slept in the passage on our table : a rolled-up jacket served as 
pillow, and a soldier's cloak was the coverlet, all in the en- 
campment style ! The doctor was everything with them — 
awake and asleep ; they never mentioned his name without 
assuming a look of pompous importance. The third event 
was accompanied with music and declamation. The most 
frightful shouting and screaming proceeded from a window 
across the harbor, to a neighboring one, from some ragged 
fellows, who, seven years before, had fled from Austria into 
Wallachia, and had lived there, but had returned, of their own 
accord, from a feeling of home-sickness. They had them- 
selves reported their return to the authorities, and were now 
obliged to perform their quarantine before they were delivered 
up. Before the sun rose, and until it was dark in the evening, 
they conversed or played on Bulgarian flutes ; but always the 
same piece, of two or, at most, of three notes. It sounded as 
when one blows in a tulip leaf, and, at the same time, treads 
on a cat's tail. 

At length our hour of freedom struck ; but the Pasha had a 
dinner-party, or something of the kind. All of us, therefore, 
were obliged to wait a whole hour beyond our term of impris- 
onment — a whole hour, which seemed like a day, before we 
could depart ; and then it was not with mirth, as when we 
came. We were exhausted. We, who had pleased ourselves 
so much with the thought of liberty, were out of practice, and 
could scarcely lift our wings. Those who leave a vessel have 
often a sensation of seasickness for some time afterward ; we 
had, in the same manner, a feeling of the quarantine. It was 
a long time before poetic images of memory mirrored them- 
selves in my mind, and then they showed the view of that poor 
little house I had seen from the tree, between fields and wood. 
They brought the tones of the flute-player from Bucharest to 
my ear. They let me feel again Sunday's devotion in our 
prison, when Ainsworth sat still and read his Bible, Pater 
Adam sang mass with his Armenian boys, and I looked at the 



3<x> 



A POET'S BAZAAR. 



green vine leaves by my trellis, where the bright sun shone so 
warm that my thoughts flew out into nature — and there we 
are always near the Almighty ! 



VII. 

IT IS SUNDAY TO-DAY ! 

It is Sunday in the almanac — Sunday in God's nature! 
Let us away into the mountains, to Mehadia, Hungary's most 
beautifully situated bathing-place ! What myriads of flowers 
in the high grass ! what sunshine on the mountain's wood-clad 
sides ! The air is so blue, so transparent ! It is Sunday to- 
day ! and therefore all the people we meet are in their holi- 
day clothes. 

The black, shining, plaited hair of the girls is adorned with 
fresh flowers, a branch of laburnum, or a dark-red carnation ; 
the large sleeves of their chemises are embroidered with green 
and red ; the skirt is long breadths of red, blue, and yellow. 
Even the little old woman is dressed thus gayly, and has a 
flower on her white linen. The lads and boys have roses in 
their hats ; the smallest one looks splendid indeed ; his short 
shirt hangs out over his trousers ; a branch of laburnum is 
fastened round his large hat, which bends down half over his 
eyes. Yes, it is Sunday to-day ! 

What solitude in these mountains ! Life and health gush 
from these wells ! Music is heard from the large and hand- 
some bathing saloon. The nightingale sings in the bright 
sunlight, amongst the balmy trees, where the wild vines wind 
their tendrils. Beautiful nature ! my best, my most holy 
church ! here my heart tells me, " It is Sunday to-day ! " 

We are again in Orsova. The brass ball on the church 
tower shines in the sun ; the door stands ajar. How solitary 
within ! The priest stands in his mass-robes, and raises his 
voice ; it is Pater Adam. Little Antonius kneels, and swings 
the censer ; the elder boy, Jeronimus, takes his place in the 
middle of the aisle, and represents the whole Armenian con- 
gregation. 



FROM ORSOVA TO DRENCOVA. 301 

In the market-place, outside the church, where the linden- 
trees are in flower, is a great dance of old and young ; the 
musicians stand in the centre of the circle, the one plays the 
bagpipe, the other scrapes the violin. The circle turns first to 
the right, then to the left. They are all in their best, with 
fringes, flowers, and bare legs ; it is Sunday to day ! 

Some little boys are running about with only a shirt on 
their bodies, but they have a large man's hat on their heads, 
and on the hat there is a flower ; dignified officials, gentlemen 
and ladies, dressed quite in the Vienna mode, walk past and 
look at the people, the dancing folks ! The red evening sun 
shines on the white church tower, or the yellow-brown Dan- 
ube, and on the wood-clad Servian mountains. Grant it may 
shine on my song, when I sing about it. How beautiful and 
lively, how fresh and characteristic ! Everything gives token 
of a feast ; everything shows that it is Sunday to-day ! 



VIII. 

A JOURNEY ALONG THE DANUBE FROM ORSOVA TO DREN- 
COVA. 

The greater part of the voyage along the Danube between 
Orsova and Drencova, is much more dangerous to navigate 
than that through the " Iron Gate." The stream here has a 
more angry power, the falls are greater and more frequent, the 
eddies far more extended. It was on this passage that the 
boat, which carried the steam-vessel's passengers, capsized 
two years before, and every soul met a watery grave. It was, 
as we were told, a gray, rainy day, somewhat stormy. The 
captain stood at the rudder, and the boat was full of passen- 
gers ; it was no easy maneuver to steer it between the pro- 
jecting rocks in the river ; a troop of peasants strove upon the 
shore, and drew it through the strong eddies, whilst the storm 
lifted the foam many yards into the air. The captain shouted 
to the peasants, bidding them drag the vessel more slowly ; 
they did not hear him ; the storm and current deafened his 
shouts. He once more repeated the command ; they mis- 



302 A POETS BAZAAR. 

understood him, and pulled more vigorously, and at the same 
moment the boat ran against a piece of rock ; it upset, and all 
attempts to save the crew and passengers were unavailing. 
Some of the bodies were found far away from the place where 
the accident happened, — amongst others that of a young Eng- 
lishman. His relatives have erected a monument close by 
the river where his body was found, and where he lies in- 
terred. 

From the time that this misfortune happened, the steam 
company have not allowed any of their passengers to make 
the voyage here in boats ; they ride or drive. An excellent 
carriage-road is now completed here under the direction of 
Count Schechenyi's and Engineer Director Basarhety's in- 
spection. 

All the baggage, on the contrary, is sent the day before the 
travellers depart, in boats drawn by horses. 

Early in the morning of the twenty-fourth of May, the car- 
riage stood before the hotel, and we rolled away. 

It was the most charming summer weather ; everything round 
about was green and fertile ; rocks with bushes and leaf-trees 
rose on the Servian side ; whilst on our own, the Austrian side, 
the whole seemed one large garden, with ever-varying scenes. 
Sometimes the mountains were quite close to us, sometimes 
they retreated, and inclosed wood-grown valleys. I had 
never before seen so many butterflies as I did this morning : 
they were all white, and thousands of trees were covered with 
them, so that one might think they were blooming fruit-trees. 
Here I might have said with Jean Paul, " Schmetterlinge sind 
fliegende blumen." The postilion cracked his whip right and 
left, and the butterflies flew in the air like snow-flakes in winter. 

Wallachian peasants live in this district of the military 
boundary ; we passed through a few of their very picturesque 
villages. The clay walls showed large cracks ; paper was 
pasted over the hole that served as a window ; a sort of gate 
bound fast to some posts with bark-rope, formed the entrance 
to a kind of yard, which generally swarmed with a herd of 
swine and an incredible number of almost naked children, 
tumbling and rolling about together ; even girls of nine or ten 
years of age ran about entirely without clothes. Round about 



FROM ORSOVA TO DRENCOVA. 



303 



stood magnificent trees, especially large and odorous chestnuts. 
The peasants we met now and then stood upright in their wag- 
ons, and hurried away like the old Romans on the chariot 
course. 

The country became more and more of a romantic charac- 
ter j in beauty it far surpasses the shores of the Rhine. At 
Plavisovicza, where the pass of Kazan is situated, the Danube 
runs between perpendicular rocks ; the road here is cut through 
the rock, and the masses of cliff hang like a polished ceiling 
over the traveller's head.* We find one large cavern by the 
side of the other for a great extent ; one of these is of such a 
length, that they say it takes an hour and a half to walk through 
it ; at last we come out into a valley on the other side of the 
mountain. The most famous one here is the so called Vetera- 
nis' cavern. We halted outside it ; no entrance was to be seen. 
The whole rock is grown over with bushes and creeping plants ; 
a little path ran along between the hedges ; it was steep, with 
many loose stones, but then we had the green branches to hold 
by, and we climbed easily the few fathoms to an entrance 
above the high-road, which was large and convenient enough 
for a full grown man. A few paces within, we were obliged to 
stoop a little, but the cavern soon expanded into a spacious, 
but gloomy chamber; from this we entered an immense cav- 
ern where the light streamed down through a large opening, 
the topmost edge of which was grown over with bushes and 
long creeping plants, forming a flowery frame to the blue air 
above ; the ceiling or roof had the appearance of petrified 
clouds ; the floor was uneven and damp. Here and there lay 
large fallen stones, and in a corner were some charcoal and 
half burnt branches, left by the last herdsmen, or by gypsies, 
who had had their meals here : a few drops of water fell with a 
monotonous and dripping sound to the floor. 

The cavern consists of an endless number of compartments. 
We went to one of the nearest ; I was foremost, but was soon 
stopped by the surprising sight before me. A large fire had 
been kindled in the middle of the floor ; a caldron was boil- 
ing over it. Round about lay or stood men and women in 
white dresses, with mulatto-colored faces and long black hair. 
Two young lads sprang toward me as quick as cats, stretched 



3O4 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

out their hands in a begging manner and addressed me in a 
language that was incomprehensible to me. It was a gypsy 
family. The younger ones were so lively, so active, that the 
contrast was remarkable between them and two old ones who 
sat by the fire. Their hair hung stiff and thickly down about 
their horrid faces ; and their clothes, as well as the manner in 
which they sat, made it a matter of difficulty to me to decide if 
they were two men 01 two women. Our party gave each of 
the young lads a trifle. One of the children got a little silver 
coin of me ; when immediately an elder girl sprang toward me, 
seized my hand, drew me toward the fire, looked in my hand, 
then courtesied three times down to the ground, and predicted 
or told my fortune. But I understood not a word of it. 

From the translation which a young gentleman from Bucha- 
rest afterward gave me of what the girl said, or rather of as 
much as he understood, the augury seemed to have been more 
applicable to a rich Englishman than a Danish poet. " Thy 
silver shall become gold, and thy possessions increase year by 
year," she had said. 

On my asking if the girl had not predicted anything bad for 
me, he told me that she had said I should have the least com- 
fort in my daughters. And there she had certainly hit the 
right nail on the head, as it regards the poet, for " Agnete " and 
" The Moorish Girl " ' have brought me but little comfort. I 
must, therefore, always strive to have boys. 

The rest of our party had also their fortunes told ; but I 
was, on the whole, the luckiest of them all. 

On the Servian side, along the whole of this part of the 
Danube, is found an antique road hewn in the rock, which 
has existed since the time of the Romans' dominion. We 
saw, on the opposite side of the stream, the so-called Trajan's 
Slate. It consists of a smooth rock, with an inscription in 
memory of Trajan's first expedition into Dacia. 

In the forenoon we reached the village of Tisowiza, where 
we were to enjoy our breakfast in a poor inn. The landlord 
had not been informed that the steam-vessel's passengers 
would arrive that day. We therefore came on him quite un- 
expectedly \ and he had to make a hasty slaughter amongst all 
1 Two comedies. 



FROM ORSOVA TO DRENCOVA. 305 

the chickens in the town. The lowest story of the house 
consisted of two stone cellars ; above these hung a very fragile 
wooden balcony, the whole length of the house, from whence 
we entered a sort of passage where the chimney stood, and 
where the food was prepared. On each side was a dingy and 
uncomfortable chamber. We, therefore, all preferred to be in 
the open air, and accordingly encamped under some tall shady 
chestnuts. Most of us were still sick from the quarantine. 1, 
in particular, felt myself suffering from it. 

After a few hours' stay we again set off, still along the 
banks of the Danube. We passed the ruins of three large tow- 
ers of the time of the Romans ; they were built close to the 
stream, and had been converted into guard-houses. A bridge 
of wood led from the road out to them. Armed boundary 
soldiers sat there and played cards, or sat astride on the wooden 
balustrades. There is an avenue of handsome walnut-trees 
almost the whole way. We tore off the scented leaves as we 
drove along ; and with a branch, by way of fan, we screened 
ourselves from the burning sun, when the large trees did not 
afford us shade. How intensely hot it was ; we languished 
with thirst ! The beaten road almost ceased ; it was so narrow 
at length, that one wheel touched the rocks' sides, and the other 
was only an inch or two from the slope down to the rushing 
river. We drove at a foot-pace, but soon even this began to 
appear too dangerous. We were obliged to descend ; but a 
descent was only to be effected by creeping down from behind 
the carriage, for there was no place on either side. Suddenly 
the road entirely ceased ! A number of men were employed 
in widening and leveling it, and in walling a sort of foundation. 
Before us was a perpendicular declivity of about four feet. 

The people said that no one had informed them there would 
be any travellers that day, and that we must consequently 
stop until they had made an inclined plane, for road it could 
not be called. Poles and boughs of trees were laid down from 
the top where we stood. The horses were taken from the car- 
riages, and the carriages were slid down, but the pole of one 
of them was broken. 

A new misfortune, which might have produced unpleasant 
results, awaited us. The hewn road in the rock on the Ser- 
20 



3C6 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

vian side is not as available as it was in the time of Trajan, 
for it cannot be used in our times. The Servians must there- 
fore drag their vessels along under military guard : to come 
in contact in any way with these people, or with the long rope 
with which they haul the vessel, has this result, — the offender 
is charged with a contumacious contempt of authority. 

We saw before us about a hundred Servian peasants, who 
dragged a very large river vessel up against the stream. They 
raised one continued and monotonous howl \ the vessel made 
slow way against the strong current. We had to drive foot by 
foot, for the road was not broad enough in any one place to 
pass them. All the plagues of the quarantine were still in our 
blood ! I could not conceive at that moment any more fear- 
ful command than that of " Return again to quarantine ! " We 
drove foot by foot, then stopped ; drove again foot by foot to 
stop again ! I had a feeling as though I were bound to go 
round the world with leaden weights to my feet. 

At length we arrived at a place where the road was a little 
broader than before, and where the soldiers that guarded the 
Servians thought that we could glide past. The tails of our 
horses were bound up that they might not, untimely whisking 
them, touch the rope. Our baggage, and even the leather cur- 
tains of our carriages, were well drawn in toward us. The 
poor Servian peasants placed themselves as close to the bank 
of the river as they possibly could, and yet we were not more 
than a foot from them. We now drove slowly and cautiously 
past the whole of that long row of at least a hundred men : 
if even the whip-lash had touched the skirt of one of their 
coats, we should have had to return again to the quaran- 
tine in Orsova. 

O, how freely we breathed ! How the coachman drove his 
horses when we had passed them ! We went at a gallop 
through the wood, over small fords, and past bubbling wells ; 
the green branches lashed our faces and shoulders. The 
prospect toward the little town of Drencova, where the steam- 
vessel Galatea awaited us, now opened through wood and 
river. 

Before the year 1836, Drencova was only a guard-house, 
but the steam navigation of the Danube will soon transform 



FROM ORSOVA TO DRENCOVA. 3O7 

it into an important town. There were, at this time, several 
respectable buildings in the place ; one of them was an inn. 
About a day's journey from hence grow the famous vines, from 
which the wine called Schiller is made. I drank a cup of it 
here, in honor of its name-giver j the spiritual wine he has 
given us will bear exportation to all the countries of the 
world, for it can only inspire, not intoxicate. 

It was with great joy that we entered that roomy and hand- 
some steam-vessel which was to carry us to the capital of 
Hungary ; and we gladdened ourselves with the thought of the 
many comforts it offered ; " but no one knows his fate ! " — 
with this sage remark, we might aptly conclude our day's jour- 
ney. A very large fair is held in Pesth four times a year, when 
people from the most remote corners of the most distant lands 
stream thither ; the steam-vessels are then in such request 
that they are invariably overcrowded, and it so happened that 
we should arrive in Pesth two days before the great St. Me- 
dardus fair. 1 The landlord predicted a highly unpleasant and 
troublesome voyage for us ; but we did not believe him, and 
thought that he wanted to entice us to botanize here until the 
next steam-vessel arrived, and meanwhile drink a toast to 
Schiller, in schiller, every evening with him. 

At sunset I strolled alone into the forest close by, where I 
likewise met gypsies. They had made a fire, and sat around 
it. When I emerged from the forest, a fine peasant boy, who 
stood amongst the bushes, greeted me with a good-evening in 
German. I asked him if it were his mother-tongue he spoke ; 
he answered " No," and told me that he generally spoke Walla- 
chian, but had learned German at school. He seemed by his 
clothes to be very poor ; but everything he had on was so 
clean, his hair so smoothly combed, his eyes beamed so hap- 
pily, there was something so wise and good in that face, that I 
have never seen a child more interesting. I asked him if he 
would be a soldier, and he replied : " Yes, we must all be so 
here ; but I may one day be an officer, and therefore I mean to 
learn all I can ! " There was something so innocent in his 
whole behavior, something so noble, that I am certain if I 
had been rich I should have adopted that boy. 

1 It begins on the first of May, and continues about a fortnight. 



308 A POETS BAZAAR. 

I told him that he must be an officer, and that he would 
certainly become one if he zealously endeavored to improve 
himself, and put his trust in God. 

On my asking him if he knew Denmark, he bethought him- 
self a little, and then answered : " I think it is far from here 
— near Hamburg ! " 

I could not give alms to him ; he seemed to me too no- 
ble to receive any. I begged him to pluck me some flow- 
ers j he darted off, and soon brought me a pretty bouquet j I 
took it, and said : " Now I will buy these flowers ! " — and so 
he came by his payment. He was quite red in the face, but 
thanked me prettily. He told me that his name was Adam 
Marco \ I took my card out of my pocket, gave it to him, and 
said, " When you are an officer, perhaps you may come to 
Denmark. If so, ask after me, and I shall rejoice with you 
over your good fortune ! Be diligent and trust in God. Who 
knows what may happen ? " I shook hands with him. He 
stood long, and looked at the vessel which I entered. 

Never has any boy made such an impression on me, at a 
first meeting, as this ; his noble manners, his sensible, inno- 
cent face, were the best patent of nobility. He must be an 
officer • and I give this my mite to help that consummation. 
Sure enough, it is borne on the wings of chance ; and I here 
bow to every noble, rich Hungarian dame who may perchance 
read this book, and perhaps have a friendly thought to spare 
for " The Improvisatore," or " Only a Fiddler \ " and I beg 
her — the poet begs her — if he has, unknown to himself, one 
rich friend in Hungary or Wallachia, to think of Adam Marco 
near Drencova, and help her little countryman forward, if he 
deserves it. 



IX. 

A VOYAGE UP THE DANUBE FROM DRENCOVA TO SEMLIN. 

It was morning ; the vessel had long been going at full 
speed. We had lost sight of Drencova. Wood-grown rocks 
arose on both sides of the river ; a range of clouds hung like 



FROM DRENCOVA TO SEMLIN. 



309 



a hovering bridge over the stream. We sailed in directly under 
them ; and the cloud-bridge was no longer steadfast. Do Ob- 
eron and Titania yet live? If so, I am sure the elves had made 
that bridge for them the night before. It suddenly changed to 
a balloon-shaped cloud, as the smoke from the steamer mixed 
with it. The country around was picturesquely beautiful. A 
rocky cliff stands in the middle of the Danube in the form of 
a rhinoceros' horn, and is called Babekey ; the word may be 
Turkish, Servian, or Slavonian. In the Servian language it 
signifies, " Be still, old one ! " in Turkish, " The rocks' 
father!" in Slavonian, "Repent, old man!" and this last 
explanation agrees with the common legend connected with 
the cliff. A jealous husband is said to have placed his wife 
there in the midst of the rapid current. The rock is just so 
large that one person can conveniently stand there, and if he 
be in a fitting humor, enjoy a very beautiful prospect ; for on 
the Servian side lies the mountain fortress of Gobulaza, on 
a rock standing perpendicularly out of the river, and in the 
background dark woods. A part of this fortress is from the 
time of the Romans. A hundred years ago it was a robber's 
castle • wild songs and the clash of drinking cups sounded 
there in the night, whilst the Danube dashed its waves against 
the solitary cliff Babekey, which often became a life's meta for 
many a poor prisoner. We soon passed Moldavia, famous for 
its copper mines ; then the hamlet of Basiasch, with its poor 
little cloister ; at every place we got a few passengers ; one 
of them, from the last named place, was an elderly gentleman, 
who seemed to be seal engraver or seal collector, for he walked 
about with his sign on his stomach. Above a dozen large 
and small seals hung from his watch ; he was a living chart 
of the Danube, and I owe the treble explanation of the name 
Babekey to him. The name of the little town O-Palanka, 
which we approached, he said, was derived from a Slavonian 
word signifying a defense with piles ; and gave it as his opin- 
ion, that in the time of the Romans the fortification here had 
been of that kind. Our only passenger from that place was a 
lady, who, at the moment that the vessel laid to, and a man 
sprung on board with her trunk, cried out : f ' No, no ! I will 
go by land ! " And she ran like a despairing sheep after the 



3IO " A POET'S BAZAAR. 

wolf that had carried off her young — the large, well-nailed 
trunk. She was on deck ; at the same moment the steam 
whistled out of the blow-pipe ; in her astonishment she re- 
mained standing motionless, and held her yellow ticket in her 
hand ; the mate took it, and we — we went on. " Yes, but I 
would rather go by land ! " said the lady. It was the first 
time in her life she had ventured on board a steam-vessel ; she 
had been over-persuaded ; it was not her own wish. She as- 
sured us that she had not slept the night before for thinking 
about this voyage. She was going far away, up to the town of 
Yucavar, two whole days' voyage ! However, she had only 
taken her place as far as Semlin, to ascertain whether she should 
be blown into the air or not. She was an economical woman. 
She Mould not pay for the whole voyage at once. She would 
first see whether she got over half of it alive ! 

She had heard of so many dreadful misfortunes with steam- 
vessels and steam-carriages, and '* they are terrible discover- 
ies ! " said she. " O, if it would only not explode with us ! " 
and then she looked anxiously on all sides. " The captain 
should keep nearer the shore ! " was her meaning, so that 
one could at least spring ashore when the vessel blew up. 
Our grave man with the seals now gave a popular lecture on 
the nature of the blow-pipe and valve, for her edification ; but 
she shook her head, and could not understand a word of it. 
I then attempted to translate it for her into a still more pop- 
ular one, and she appeared to understand me, for at every sen- 
tence she said " Yes." " Imagine, Madame," said I, " that 
you have a pot on the fire : the water in it boils very fast, a 
large lid covers it as tight as if it were screwed fast ; then the 
pot will spring from the hot steam within it, but if it be a light, 
loose lid, then the lid tilts up and down, but the pot will not 
spring ! " " But God preserve us ! " said the lady ; " when 
the lid" — and here she pointed to the deck — " when the lid 
here over the steam-engine tilts up, we shall be tumbled into 
the Danube ! " and she took a fast hold of the bulwark. 

Toward noon we passed Kubin. A majestic thunder-cloud 
hung over the town. The clouds formed an Alpine land of 
greatness and darkness. The lightning's flash was the moun- 
tain path ; it ran in the boldest zigzag. The thunder rolled 



FROM DRENCOVA TO SEMLIN. 311 

above us, not as the fall of an avalanche ; no, but like the 
mountains themselves crashing together. Yet it continued 
equally hot as before, the air was oppressively warm. Our 
poor lady, however, was still warmer than we. She had 
thrown her large shawl around her, so that she could neither 
see nor hear, and sat, with a beating heart, waiting for the 
great explosion the vessel was to make. I proposed to her to 
go down into the ladies' cabin ; but she answered No, with her 
hand, for she could not speak otherwise. We darted on rap- 
idly against the stream, alongside the endless forests of Servia, 
the green color of which began to weary me. I felt a desire 
for a view of the mountains of Attica, or even a piece of Jut- 
land heath. The storm was quite over when we passed the 
Turkish fortress, Semendria. It forms a triangle, is fortified 
with walls, and has many towers, mostly square or round, all 
ruinous, as well as the circular walls. It was not possible to 
suppose that this place represented a fortress built in our time. 
On one tower, the roof consisted merely of loose laths ; we 
could see the open sky through them. Two Turkish soldiers 
sat in an open hole in the turret, and stared after us. They 
were the only living beings we saw in all that long ruinous 
building. The town itself was insignificant ; a little wooden 
minaret, whitewashed over, was the whole ornament of the 
place. That oppressive air, that nausea one felt, — yes, it 
looked as if the fortress itself was " struck all of a heap " with 
loathing and tediousness. The waves of the Danube were 
quite yellow ; people sat on the deck with umbrellas over their 
heads and slept. Everything we touched was glowing hot. 
Our lady ordered one glass of water after another ; she took 
camphor drops on sugar. 

The next place we passed was Panscova, a town of which 
they say that it is the custom there for young and old, nay, 
even for the poorest, to paint themselves. When the ladies 
there weep over a novel or romance, one may reckon all their 
real tears ; they will be seen like pink spots on the white 
leaves of a book ! The sun went down, it was still quite 
sultry : the crescent moon hung directly over the fortress of 
Belgrade. On the German side there were strong flashes of 
lightning. Lights moved here and there on shore. We shot 



312 A POET'S BAZAAR, 

past the roaring Sava ; it was quite dark ; some minutes after- 
ward we lay still, close to the shore, outside Semlin, the first 
Austrian town on our right side ; the river Sava here formed 
the boundary toward Servia. Here then we were to leave 
the military boundaries, and pass through Hungary itself. All 
the steam-vessels remain two days and a night at Semlin • we 
had, therefore, plenty of time to say farewell to the last city 
with minarets. The lady would not, however, remain the night 
over on board the steamer. She had a relation in Semlin ; she 
would stay with him, — nay, stay away altogether. She there- 
fore went ashore the first opportunity. 

It was morning ; all around lay in broad sunlight. The 
country around Semlin is flat ; to the left, a meadow with 
guard-houses erected on piles, that the guards on watch may 
not be washed away when the Danube rises. To the right, 
Semlin, a regular provincial town. Toward the east, the 
fortress of Belgrade, with its white minarets, the most charac- 
teristic feature in the aspect of the East. The fortress, with its 
mosque, stands on the top of a steep rock, and round about 
that again is the town stretching down toward the Danube 
and Sava, and inclosed on the other side by a large oak wood. 
Belgrade has fourteen mosques. The right wing of the town 
is occupied by the Turkish part of the inhabitants ; the centre 
and left part by the Servians. It was on the twenty-fifth of 
February, 1839, that the Servians obtained their free constitu- 
tion. The Turks have now only the fortress ; the pasha there 
is like a commander or governor. It was in the palace gar- 
den here that the noble Greek poet, Rhigas, was shamefully 
executed. He was the Beranger of Greece, and in the then 
state of Greece, a poet of still greater mark than the French- 
man. It was not alone by his songs that he awoke the feeling 
of freedom amongst the people, but he employed his means in 
educating young Greeks. He had them sent to him to Venice, 
where he lived as a merchant. He had them brought up to 
feel what their father-land had been. Greece was still under 
Turkish sway. Rhigas was delivered to the Turks, who com- 
manded him to be sawn in two alive ; and this horrible 
execution took place here in the pasha's palace yard. Six 
hundred and thirty Servians were impaled in the same place 



FROM DRENCOVA TOSEMLIN. 313 

in 18 1 5. They had all surrendered on the promise of being 
pardoned. One of these unfortunate beings lived until the 
seventh day after the impalement. The Danube swam with 
dead bodies — with the bodies of the Servians. The Turks 
might have sung in mockery, " It is beautiful to sit by the 
river and see the broken weapons of thine enemy glide past ! " 

Below, where the Sava falls into the Danube, stands a 
decayed tower, Neboisce, — " Be without fear ! " The bodies 
of the executed were thrown from an aperture in its walls into 
the Danube In this tower, in the deepest dungeon, into which 
the water forces its way, sat the noble Prince Jeffram Obreno- 
witsch, brother to Prince Milosch, who in open battle com- 
pelled the pasha to deliver his prisoner. The remembrances 
connected with the place awakened thoughts of the wood- 
demon who pressed his strong legs around Prince Agib's 
neck, as the legend informs us. At the sight of that gloomy, 
ruinous tower, I fancied I felt the clammy walls press me like 
the wood-demon's legs ! What horrors are there not con- 
nected with the scene which now lay before me in the bright 
est sunshine, with fresh green trees, sunlit minarets, cupolas, 
and red-roofed houses ! 

Servia's first deliverer, Black George, fled through that dark 
oak forest, by the river Sava ; this wood and this river were 
the scene of one of those tragic combats that live, and will 
live in the people's songs. Black George fled with his old 
father, the herdsman Petroni ; they already saw the river Sava 
and the borders of Austria, and the father was filled with the 
anguish of leaving his father-land. He begged his son to sur- 
render himself, that they might die together on their native 
soil ; and George wavered between filial obedience and the 
love of freedom ; the first was about to gain the mastery, when 
the shouts of the Bosnians and Turks resounded through the 
forest. The son prepared to lift his father on his shoulders, 
and swim with him across the river ; but the old man would 
not leave that land to which the memories of his life were 
bound ; he would rather be hewed down by the wild hordes ! 
The son then begged his father's blessing, and the old man 
bestowed it upon him, opened his mantle, and bared his 
breast. The son shot his bullet into his father's heart, cast 



314 A POETS BAZAAR. 

the body into the Sava, and then swam over the river himself. 
It was as though the waves still told me about it ; and the 
dark oak forest nodded, saying : " Yes, so it was." Screaming 
birds flew out of the open black holes in the tower from 
whence the bodies of the Servians had been thrown \ thus do 
birds of prey flutter around a place of execution. 

Between the Austrian town Semlin and the river Sava there 
is a meadow, stretching out directly before Belgrade, in which 
there is held a sort of market; two rows of palisades near 
each other separate the buyers from the sellers ; the Austrian 
watch, and the military officials, pass along this long narrow 
way, and observe that no contact takes place ; that the Turk- 
ish goods come into quarantine, and that the money is first 
washed in vinegar before it is taken on the Austrian frontier. 
There is a shouting and gesticulating between the different 
people to make themselves understood by each other ; the 
wares are spread out, turned, and tumbled about. Swine, 
horses, — in short, all kinds of cattle are driven into the river. 
When they have been well washed in it, they are considered 
as being free from contagion ; the whip cracks, the horn 
sounds, and the shy animals run in amongst the Turks, and 
must then out again into the bath. 

Two Greek priests, with dark-blue mantles down to their 
ankles, small hats, and large beards, sat lounging the whole 
afternoon under the poplars by the Danube, and looked at our 
vessel. Toward evening the chief persons of the good city of 
Semlin came on board ; they greeted each other, as we could 
see, according to rank ; some got a whole bushel of compli- 
ments, they were the very tip-top inhabitants ; others got 
gracious compliments by the drachm ; it was quite ridiculous 
to see. I thought I was at home ! How mankind resemble 
each other everywhere. 

Something more novel was the sight here of the long row 
of river vessels ; every one of them looked like a Noah's ark. 
They were long, very narrow, and with a house (for they are 
floating houses) that was large enough to form a whole street. 
They were all painted over in various colors ; on one stood a 
glowing red lion on each side of the door ; on another, grass- 
green dragons, with gold crowns on their heads ; most of the 



FROM SEMLIN TO MO H ACS. 315 

others had pictures of saints. The way in which they ma- 
neuvered to get up against the stream was this ; not less than 
twenty-one men, one behind the other, took their places on 
the roof, which extended over the whole vessel. They hauled 
in a rope, bound fast to an anchor placed at a great distance 
up in the middle of the stream • they get forward, but at a 
snail's pace. A thunder-cloud stood over the plains of Hun- 
gary ; the rain poured down over the homeward-bound Sem- 
liners, both over number one in rank, and over numbers two, 
three, four — as many as you please. Such a stupid cloud 
does not know the distinction due to persons ; it drenches 
high and low ! After rain comes sunshine ; everything shone 
again in the setting sun, the Danube's and Sava's waves, and 
Belgrade's minarets. Here the Servian Dryads bade me their 
last farewell ; here I heard the last cry at night from the 
dwellers on the minarets. When I again come. upon deck to- 
morrow, there will be nothing on the shore to remind me of 
the East ! Here I see the last minaret. 



X. 

FROM SEMLIN TO MOHACS. 

The day broke, and we still lay outside Semlin ; the whole 
district around was enveloped in thick mist ; the Captain 
durst not venture to sail up that tortuous river. The wind 
blew, the mist became more transparent ; the vessel was set 
in motion, we passed green meadows and yellow cliffs. A 
number of new passengers had come on board on the previous 
evening. They came up from the cabin one after another ; 
one with his coffee-cup, another with his hand-book, or a 
paper, on which the events of the day were to be noted down. 
A few government officers carried on a conversation in Latin, 
from which we knew we were in Hungary ; an ecclesiastic, 
who heard that I was Danish, began a conversation with me 
about Tycho Brahe, Schumacher, and H. C. Orsted ; the man 
was very eloquent, had travelled much, and knew the particu- 
lars about most places and things. He was an astronomer, 
and his name, Wartan Josephi. 



316 



A POET'S BAZAAR. 



It comes pleasantly home to a man's feelings to hear, so far 
from his father-land, its, or one of its significant names that 
shed a lustre over his country, spoken of with admiration and 
affection ; the invisible roots of the soul that hold us to our 
home's soil are touched in a strange manner : we become at 
once glad and sorrowful. The stranger spoke particularly 
about Orsted, and the cordial words sounded like music to 
my ear; and the fertile green meadow I looked upon re- 
minded me of summer-Denmark. My heart was told of my 
father-land through ear and eye. 

Before us lay Karlowitz, with the church of Maria-Fried : at 
a distance it reminded me of Rosenborg Palace, in Copenha- 
gen : I knew these towers and spires, I knew these fields, and 
the green trees. On the following day's voyage it became a 
certainty to me that Hungary — at least, near the Danube 
— has quite a Danish character. If we travel on the high- 
road between Karlowitz and Peterwardein, then the distance 
between both these places is only a walk ; on the contrary, if 
we go up the river it is a little voyage, as the Danube makes 
one of its most considerable windings here. 

Peterwardein, the strongest fortress of Austria, does not 
appear very large, and has nothing of the imposing effect of 
Ehrenbreitstein. On our voyage up the river, it looked like a 
fortress in a flat country ; its outworks appeared to be walled 
terraces, the one higher than the other, behind which lay 
long, barrack-like buildings. When we came to the opposite 
side of the fortress, toward the hamlet of Neusats, 1 it offered 
something of a nobler and more picturesque character ; the 
foundation was on a rock ; it rose on large masses of granite. 

All the good folks of Neusats were out in the street, under 
the green trees, to look at the steam-vessel ; three large heaps 
of goods lay on the shore ; people took leave of and kissed 
each other, and the mother fastened the cloak a little closer 
around the daughter who was going away ; a cavalier held the 
parasol whilst two ladies embraced each other : we had a con- 
siderable accession of company on board. 

1 In 1738, Neusats was a fishing village, now it is a town of considerable 
importance ; between Neusats and Peterwardein is the first bridge across 
the Danube : it is a bridge of boats. 



FROM SEMLIN TO MO H ACS. 



317 



We sailed in between two green fruitful mountains, and met 
two boats filled to repletion \ there were above a hundred per- 
sons in each ; those on board said that they were returning 
from a pilgrimage : they sang and rejoiced. It often happens 
in dark and bad weather that such boats meet with accidents. 
Whilst we were speaking about it, a thunder-cloud rolled like 
an avalanche between the mountains ; a shower came over us ; 
the Danube swelled as if its Naiads had become angry be- 
cause they were bearing the pious men who had come from 
the pilgrimage. We shot forward rapidly. One little town 
peeped forth after another between the green trees. Small 
floating colonies lay on the Danube ; every house was a water- 
mill ; the wheel went round, the miller's men hung on each 
other's backs by the open shutter-windows to see our vessel, 
and the strangers in it. The mirth of an "Eulenspiegel" began 
here, and was continued right up to Pesth. The Hungarians 
take their hats off at every water-mill they come to, put it un- 
der their arm, and grind round with the other hand, which 
signifies that the millers grind for their own hats, or, in other 
words, what we call — - steal ; here, as everywhere else, the 
jest against the millers was understood and answered, as poor 
Eulenspiegel would have answered it : but I need not enter 
into particulars. 

We lay for a short time outside Illok, an old town which was 
almost hidden by a thick, bush-grown cliff; the fortress is com- 
pletely destroyed ; a Franciscan monastery extends very pic- 
turesquely along the summit ; this was the most considerable 
we had yet seen on our voyage up the Danube. A new palace 
was building for the princely family of Odaskalki. 

What a beautiful, picturesque scene the face of nature here 
presents ! When in a few years the Danube gets its pano- 
ramic views like the Rhine, Illok will then be one of the 
places where the beholder will wish to wander between the 
green woods under the ivy-covered walls of the monastery ; 
but he will not do so ; he will have but the prospect ; nor did 
we in reality get more — t we were all on board, and sailed for- 
ward on our way. 

At sunset we reached Yucovar : here and in Borova, where 
we arrived in the night, there came new passengers; the 



3 l8 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

number increased in the morning when we lay before Dalja. 
People streamed to the great Medardus fair from all parts ; 
every sleeping place in the vessel was taken, and we had still 
a three days' voyage before we reached the end of our journey ; 
we had yet to pass Apatin, Mohacs, Baja, Tolna, Paks, Fold- 
var, and Ersceny ; seven towns, where we might expect new 
guests from each, and all were to go by our vessel.. 

At Erdod lies a ruin on a high cliff; it is equally as pictur- 
esque as the legend connected with it is original. 1 A young 
nobleman of the house of Erdod lifted his hand against his 
father, struck him in the face, and the old man cursed his son ; 
a flaming red mark, like that of Cain, appeared on the son's 
brow ; it burnt — it drove him away up toward the cold 
North, through marsh and forest, over mountains and seas, to 
ice and snow. All turned away from him wherever he came ; 
the mark burnt and burnt. He turned toward the South, to 
the merry lively people ; but they feared Cain, they turned 
from him. Then despair came on his heart — he knew not 
where he went. A river rushed under the precipice where he 
stood, a knight's castle lay there, illumined by the sinking sun ; 
he knew its towers, its spires, and the venerable man, who, 
leaning on his jager passed over the draw-bridge : he threw 
himself at the old man's feet, and with the father's blessing 
the burning mark vanished from his brow. 

Our last guests were highly characteristic — real country 
nobles ; all in parti-colored jackets of light red or light blue 
striped linen ; they all had bare necks and short beards ; 
these were to represent innocence and strength. They had 
caps with the Hungarian national color, green, yellow, and 
red, the one little triangular patch sewed by the side of the 
other. They all wore mustaches ending on each side like a 
little ram's horn. A young, yellow-visaged Jew made him- 
self very conspicuous by them ; he had them so small that 
they looked like three hairs well plastered with pomatum : we 
could see that in his family's, and in his own opinion, he was 
a very fine gentleman. He was a real Hungarian idler ! 

1 1 give the legend as it was verbally related to me on the spot ; it 
sounds, however, somewhat different in Mednyanszky's Erzdhlungen, Sagen 
und Legenden aus Ungams Vorzeit. 



THE SWINEHERD. 319 

In the afternoon we reached Mohacs, where we were to re- 
main until the next morning. The plain near this town has a 
sort of fame from the battle between Louis II. of Hungary 
and Solyman the Magnificent ; it is immortalized in a painting 
belonging to the Bishop's residence outside the town. I 
was with the rest on the way thither, but turned back. I 
did not care to go so far. I directed my steps to a barber's, 
for I was prosaically inclined, and one becomes so on a voy- 
age ; yet I must confess that I was extremely sorry I had not 
seen the picture, of which the other passengers spoke highly. 
But is it not true, that we cannot see everything ? I looked 
at another picture in the house of the poor barber ; there hung 
a genuine Hungarian piece, of the kind one buys for a penny. 
On a sheet of paper, two praying angels hovered in the air, 
and under them were two clasped hands with the inscription : 
" For our friends ! " by the side of these were two strong fists, 
and here was written : "Against our enemies ! " 

This was also a picture, and perhaps more characteristic of 
Hungary than the painting I should have seen in the Bishop's 
mansion, where I did not care to go. 

I was tired, fatigued, and weary of the voyage ; and that is 
the truth. 



XI. 

THE SWINEHERD. 

Outside that clay and straw-plastered hut sits an old swine- 
herd, — a real Hungarian, consequently a nobleman. He has 
often laid his hand on his heart and said so to himself. The 
sun burns hot, therefore he has turned the woolly side of his 
sheepskin cloak outward ; his silvery white hair hangs down 
his characteristically brown face ; he has got a new piece of 
linen, a shirt, and he manages it in his way ; rubs it in with 
bacon ; then it keeps longer clean, then it can be turned and 
turned again. His grandson, a florid complexioned lad, with 
his long, black hair shining with the same sort of pomatum as 
the old man uses to his linen, stands close by, leaning on a 
staff; a long leather bag hangs over his shoulder. He is also 



520 A POETS BAZAAR. 

a swineherd, and is going this evening on board a vessel 
which, towed by the steamer Eros, carries a large cargo of 
swine to the capital. 

" In five days you will be there," says the man ; " when I 
was a lad like thee, we took six weeks to it ! We went step 
by step, through marshy ways, through woods and over rocks ; 
swine that in the first few days were so fat that some of them 
burst on the march, became thin and miserable before we 
came to the place. Now the world goes forward ! Every- 
thing becomes easier." 

" We can smoke our pipes," says the young one, " lie in our 
skin cloaks in the warm sun ; towns and meadows glide past 
us ; the swine fly too, and become fat on the way. That is a 
gentleman's life ! " 

" Every one has his," says the old one ; " I had mine. 
There is mirth in adventure. When I saw the gypsies boiling 
and roasting in the wood, I was obliged to be on the lookout 
that my best swine did not get into the pot. I have seen 
many a merry hour ; I had to think, to turn myself, and, now 
and then, to use my fists. On the plain between the rocks, 
where, you know, the winds are shut in, I drove my herd : I 
drove it over the field where the invisible palace of the winds 
is erected. One saw neither house nor roof; the palace of 
the winds can only be felt ! I drove the herd through all the 
invisible rooms and saloons ; I observed it full well ; the wall 
was storm, the door whirlwind ! It is worth while having tried 
such things ; it gives one something to talk about. What 
have you, who bask in sunshine on the large swimming pigsty, 
to relate ? " 

And as the old man talks, he rubs his new piece of linen 
very eagerly. 

" Go with me to the Danube," says the young one ; "there 
you shall see a huddle of swine so fat, that they appear as 
though each and all would burst. They will not go into the 
vessel, we drive them with sticks ; they squeeze themselves 
together, place themselves across, stretch themselves on the 
ground, crawl on each other's backs, however heavy they may 
be. That is a huddle worth seeing. You will laugh till you 
shake again. There is a squealing — all the musicians in 



FAIR GUESTS. 32 I 

Hungary could not get such tones out of their bagpipes, if 
they were to squeeze them ever so hard. Now your shirt 
shines so well with the fat pork that you cannot make it look 
better. Go with me to the Danube ; I will give you something 
to drink, old father. In four days I shall be in the capital ; I 
shall see luxury and splendor ; I will buy thee a pair of red 
trousers and plated spurs." 

And the old swineherd lifts his head proudly, looks with 
glistening eyes on the young Magyar, hangs his shirt up on a 
hook in the low clay cabin, where there is only a bench, table, 
and wooden chest : he nods his head, and mutters, " Nemes- 
ember van, nemes-ember en es vagyok /"* 



XII. 

FAIR GUESTS. 

We leave Mohacs. Our vessel was quite filled with pas- 
sengers ; we were above three hundred, and many more were 
expected before we reached Pesth. Chests, sacks, bundles, 
and packages lay heaped up as high as the boxes of the pad- 
dle-wheels, and round about, on deck and under the deck, 
people tried to get a place, if not to sit, at least to stand. A 
Turkish Jew who had come down from Semlin had the best 
of it ; he continued to keep the place he had first taken ; he 
sat on a. carpet he had spread out, and held a large keg of 
wine between his legs. Every moment he drank a toast, 
nodded and sang, crowed like a cock, and sighed like a 
maiden; he was the pantaloon for the whole company, and 
merry enough he was. A heiduk, or foot-soldier, in red trou- 
sers and large white cloak, stood unmoved from morning till 
evening, with his back against the captain's cabin, and 
smoked his pipe. Some old Jews read aloud to themselves 
out of their Hebrew Bibles. Two or three families sat on 
some piled-up bundles, and ate bread and onions, as well as 
played a game of cards or idled away the time. A young 
militaire paid continual court to a girl, whilst two other oflfi 
1 " He is a nobleman ; I also am a nobleman ! " 
21 



322 



A POET'S BAZAAR. 



cers jested with the little Armenian boy Antonius, and, to the 
great dismay of Pater Adam, told him that it was not good to 
be a monk ! They showed him their sabres, pointed to their 
mustaches, set their parti-colored caps on his head. The boy 
smiled, and Pater Adam shook his head. There was a merri- 
ment, a screaming, a humming, and buzzing, both above and 
below. " Mein parapleem ! parapleem / " screamed a Jew who 
had lost his umbrella. " Felix fausturnque sit f" shouted a 
black dressed Oskolamestre, who met his colleague ! The 
poor damsel who had come with us from Constantinople gave 
herself up to tears on account of the great mass of people, and, 
as she said, "the horrible company in the second cabin." 
One might laugh or cry at it. Everything below was envel- 
oped in tobacco smoke. People stood upon each other, but 
there were also many who sat, and that not only on the 
benches, but on the ends and sides of the tables : they sat 
there all day that they might have a sitting place at night. 
Two young wives of the Jewish faith stood in the midst of the 
throng, with their arms around each other's waists, and smelt 
of a citron. 

There was not much better accommodation in the first cabin, 
only that there we were free from tobacco-smoke. The gen- 
tlemen sat unceremoniously amongst the ladies, and played 
makan, a very high game at hazard. A Semlin trader, in a 
green jerkin, and with a black felt hat, which he never took 
off, even while he slept, had already played watch and money 
away. Champagne corks flew about ; there was a smell of 
beefsteaks ! — and in the evening it was worse still j they had 
to sleep on tables and benches, nay, under the tables and 
benches, even in the cabin windows ; some lay in their clothes, 
others made themselves comfortable, and imagined that they 
were going to their own good beds at home. 

The ladies' cabins were equally overfilled ; a few of the eldest 
took courage, and a manly heart, as we call it, and sat down 
within the door of our cabin with us ! Others took up their 
place on the steps, the one over the other. The whole deck 
was one large bed, and here they went to rest with the sun. 
One could not take a step without treading on them ! Here 
was a murmuring, a sighing, a snoring — and we had this for 



PESTH AND OFEN. 



323 



two nights ! One quite forgot the poetry of nature for every-day 
life. New fruitful districts, vine-hills, and large villages with 
new and light churches met our view as we darted past. At 
length, on the third morning after our departure from Mohacs, 
the Hungarian flag 1 was hoisted, Pesth lay before us in 
airy mist ! Ofen was hidden by the high mountain of St. 
Gerhard, 2 where a flag was hoisted on the summit of the tower 
to greet the steamer which brought the fair guests. 



XIII. 

PESTH AND OFEN. 

Here is a prospect! But how shall one paint it with 
words, — and the sunlight in which it appears. The buildings 
along the shores of the river in Pesth seem to be a row of 
palaces ; what life and bustle ! Hungarian dandies, trades- 
men, both Jews and Greeks, soldiers and peasants, force their 
way amongst each other. It is the fair of St. Medardus. 
Less, but variegated houses extend along the opposite shore 
of the river under the high grass-green mountains ; a few rows 
lie in ranks on the mountain side. That is Ofen, the capital 
of Hungary; the fortress, the Hungarian Acropolis, lifts its 
white walls above the green gardens. 

A bridge of boats unites the two towns. What a throng 
and tumult ! The bridge rocks as the carriages pass over it. 
Soldiers march ; bayonets glitter in the sun ; a procession of 
peasants sets out on a pilgrimage. Now, they are on the mid- 
dle of the bridge, the cross twinkles, the song reaches us. The 
river itself is half-filled with ships and small vessels. Hearken 
to the music ! A crowd of boats are rowed up against the 

1 The Hungarian flag has a red stripe at the top, a green one at the 
bottom, and in the middle a white. In the right field are the rivers Drave, 
Save, and Theiss ; in the left field three mountains, Tatra, Fatra, and Matra ; 
and above the field is a crown, the cross of which is bent as in the real Hun- 
garian royal crown, which was a gift from Pope Sylvester to Stephen the 
Holy. None but those who have worn it, are entitled Kings of Hungary. 

2 The heathens threw the holy St. Gerhard from this place into the 
Danube. 



324 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

stream \ the Hungarian flag waves by dozens from every boat ; 
the whole shore is filled with people. What kind of proces- 
sion is it ? All the persons in the boats are nearly naked, but 
with tri-colored caps on. The music clangs, the flags wave, 
the oars splash! What does it all signify? I ask a young 
lady, who is also looking at this merriment, and she explains 
to me that it is the military swimming school. Officers and 
cadets all swim, as for a wager, down with the stream to St. 
Gerhard's mount ; but it is impossible to swim back, and 
therefore they row in boats, with flags and music. It has a 
gay appearance, and it is characteristic ! All is exultation — 
all is festivity — the church bells ring. It is Whitsunday! 

We go on shore, we seek for a hotel. It is large and 
splendid ; and it is shamefully dear ! There is no tax here 
during the fair time. We wander about in Pesth ; but it is 
Vienna, — at least, a part of Vienna. The same shops ; the 
same diversified, well-painted signs, with portraits and alle- 
gories. One feels a desire to stand still. See there, on the 
coffee-house, in gilt letters : " Kave-hbs ; " and, underneath, is 
a picture, which shows "the heavenly coffee-well." Angels 
sit down to table here, and drink coffee ; one of the most 
beautiful fetches it from the fountain, where it streams forth, 
quite dark-brown, amongst the flowers. In one of the streets 
here, is a " Stock-am Eisen" just as in Vienna ; the last rem- 
nant of the primitive forest by the Danube. Here every trav- 
elling workman struck his nail into the tree, as long as there 
was a spot where it could be driven in ; and the tree became 
an iron tree, a tree of nails ! Hercules himself had not such 
a club. 

Not a trace is now to be seen of the overflowing of the Dan- 
ube ; every house is erected again ; everything is newer and 
more splendid. 1 

Ofen has one theatre, Pesth two : the one, and the least of 
them, is the national theatre, where they only perform plays 
in the Hungarian language. Here are good actors and good 
music ; and the house is, as they told me, always well fre- 

1 In 1838, there was a dreadful inundation here. The water rose twenty- 
nine feet four inches above the usual level. Many persons perished ; cat- 
tle were drowned, and houses fell down. 



PESTH AND OFEN. 



325 



quented. This building is also used as a concert saloon. I 
heard Mendelssohn-Bartholdy's oratorio of " Saint Paul," in a 
Hungarian translation, or, as it is called in Hungarian abbre- 
viation, " Pal." The Royal Theatre is large and handsome, but 
badly lighted. Emil Devrient, from Saxony, so celebrated in 
Germany, was here during my stay, and performed Sancho, 
in Raupach's " Die Konigsstochter em Bettlerweib," and 
Bolingbroke, in Scribe's " Un Verre d'Eau." There was na- 
ture and truth in this artist's playing ; he shone like a star of 
the first magnitude amongst these lesser ones. However, there 
were several that one could observe were public favorites, — a 

Madame , in particular, who appeared to me to have a 

high degree of mannerism ; but the worse the lady performed, 
the more did the people applaud. 

The " National Casino/' where I was introduced, is very 
large ; and, with respect to books and newspapers, extremely 
well supplied. What interests the stranger most here, is the 
number of different journals and periodicals in the language 
of the country. As the most read, and most important Hun- 
garian poet, may be mentioned Josika, who has written many 
novels. One of these, " The Bohemians in Hungary," is much 
praised. The question was put to me, — if any Hungarian 
work had been translated into Danish ? and I could only an- 
swer that I knew but one, " Szechenyi on Horse-racing," 
and added that it had been just translated by one of my dear- 
est Danish friends. The Hungarians spoke with great enthu- 
siasm of Szechenyi and his many services to Hungary. As 
the most interesting of his works, they named " Der Credit." 

Szechenyi's portrait was to be seen in all the book-sellers' 
shops, and it ornamented our cabin in the steamer, which car- 
ried us higher up the Danube. Yet, before we sail again, let 
us take a little trip to the other side of Ofen, to Gul-Baba's 
grave, by the " Imperial Bath." We bring a greeting from the 
East to the Turkish saint ; we bring it from old Stamboul, 
from Mohammed's green flag ! Who is he within there, that 
lies stretched out on his face, a white felt hat without brim 
around his brow ? Did I not see him in the whirling dance, 
amongst the Mewlewis in Pera ? It is a dervise ! He has wan- 
dered hither on foot, over mountains, through desert wastes, to a 



326 A POETS BAZAAR. 

strange people, to the Christians' city ! His pilgrimage is ended, 
As a memento thereof, he hangs a parti-colored wooden sword 
on the wall, casts himself on his face, and mutters, " There 
is no God but God, and Mohammed is his prophet ! " 

It is evening ! the sun sinks red and large ! The son of the 
East wanders silently from the grave to the high fortress. He 
has sought out the most solitary way, the most remote bastion ; 
he bends his head, and says another prayer. The common 
man stands at a distance ; stares after the foreign wanderer, 
and has his own thoughts ! There is, as he knows, no peace 
at night in this place. An hour before midnight, the gigantic 
figure of an unhappy spirit, a Turk, glides about here. The 
figure lifts the largest of the cannons, shoulders it, and marches 
round the walls with it. At the stroke of twelve, it lays the 
cannon down in its place, and vanishes. Will the living figure 
exchange words here with the dead this night ? It is still on 
the bastion, and still in the little tomb where Gul-Baba sleeps. 



XIV. 

THE DANUBE FROM PESTH TO VIENNA. 

The steamer Maria Anna sails early in the morning to Vi- 
enna. We go on board j the little vessel is over-filled with 
passengers. It goes off at a rapid rate, against the stream, 
past the bathing-houses, where the palings bend under the 
weight of half-naked soldiers, one wrapped in a sheet, others 
in shirts ; but now we are past ! 

Primitive forests once extended along these shores ; a soli- 
tary hut, of earth and boughs, stood by the swelling river. 
Waitz was the name of its pious hermit ; his memory now lives 
only in the name of the town which greets us with its churches 
and promenades. It is Waitzen. The legend states that shortly 
before the battle of Mogyrrod, the Princes Geisa and Ladislaus 
rode through the forest here together. They spoke of the order 
of battle, and the positions of the armies, when Ladislaus sud- 
denly cried out, " Did you not see something ? Whilst we spoke 
together, an angel came from heaven, and held a crown over 



FROM PESTH TO VIENNA. 



327 



your head ! Now, I know you will conquer ! " And Geisa 
swore : " If God be with us, and thy vision be fulfilled, I will 
build a church on this spot ! " The enemy fled j and here by 
the hermit's cell, in the dark wood, a stag, with burning antlers, 
started suddenly forth ; the warriors shot at it, the stag sprang 
into the Danube, and disappeared. The church was built by 
the side of Waitz's cell ; a town rose round about it, and was 
called Waitzen. 

Legends and reminiscences are connected with these shores. 
Here the scene varies with wood and rock, with green fields 
and populous towns. We approach a ruin ; in its days of 
power it was once the most fairy-like palace in Europe. Mat- 
thew Corvini loved this place : at his command the floors were 
spread with marble, the ceiling shone with gold, the walls with 
paintings and rich drapery. Every window told a legend or a 
heathenish saga ; birds of various plumage flew about in here 
in the winter time amongst the palms and oranges of the 
South. All has disappeared ; the fox digs his hole where 
proud knights danced in rows. The herdsman drives his herd 
over the narrow path between the bushes, where artificial foun- 
tains splashed on the high terraces. The poet of that time be- 
holding it, thought and dreamed of Armida's enchanted garden. 
The boat, adorned with oriental splendor, was loosened here 
from the little marble haven in the moonlight summer even- 
ings. The music sounded, joyous women and brave men 
made merry sailing trips, and rejoiced in the evening, and 
were gladdened by the grand echo which answered again and 
again from Solomon's tower, by the river, — a building six stories 
in height. All this has disappeared, all is passed ; Echo alone 
sits here yet on the ruins, and replies with the unchanged voice 
of youth ; yet one name, say the people, it does not repeat, 
and that is of the traitor Betez, who betrayed his king. 

We approached Gran, where Stephen the Holy was born, 
and where he now rests in his coffin. In the midst of the 
ruined fortress on the cliff a church is building. The town 
itself lies flat, between green trees ; from these trees a number 
of butterflies flutter over the Danube, as if they were a bevy 
of sylphides, of which we only saw the wings. The thought 
of sylphides and the name of the town leads me back to the 



328 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

Sylphide of the North, who flew from the Danish scene to the 
world's city, Paris, and enchanted even that critical gentleman, 
Jules Janin ; then, at once went on crutches to the baths of the 
Pyrenees ; sank from admiration and renown to suffering and 
oblivion! I forget Stephen the Holy's town for Lucile — for- 
get Gran for Grahn ! 

Toward evening we reached Comorn ; new passengers 
flocked to our steamer. It was now so full that each of us 
might be glad if we got a place to sit in at night; the luxury 
of stretching one's weary limbs at full length was too much 
to expect. We sat side by side. As there are moving sand 
banks in the Danube that sometimes lie here and sometimes 
there, we naturally ran on them several times. One passen- 
ger knocked against his neighbor, a few old gentlemen fell on 
their knees to the floor, and the refreshment tables danced a 
mazurka. 

The next day's voyage offered only the sight of flat wood- 
grown shores, with here and there a water-mill or a village 
with a church. We now lay before Presburg. As we neared 
the bridge, a " Kellner " (cellar-man or butler) threw a pack 
of cards into the river, heaven knows why ! The cards sank 
down deep as if they willingly sought the bottom ; one 
in particular, but it came up again — it was the Queen of 
Hearts. She courtesied three times very deeply, and then she 
sank. This was our gracious welcome to Presburg. Close to 
the place where we landed was a little hill with a walled fence, 
whose name is significant — it is " Kronungs Berg." The 
joyous Hungarians, who are handsome, very handsome, as- 
semble round this hill on the day of the King's coronation ; 
the tri-colored flag then waves from all the vessels in the 
river ; the cannons thunder, and Hungary's King in the same 
dress, and with the same crown Stephen the Holy wore, rides 
up this hill, and from its summit, with his sword raised against 
the four quarters of the world, swears to defend and maintain 
his country. Church-bells and trumpets, the cannons, and 
people's mouths exultingly shout their " Long life to the 
Lord's anointed ! " 

I like this city j it is lively and motley. The shops appear 
to have been brought from Vienna ! " Yes, here is much to 



FROM PESTH TO VIENNA. 



329 



see," says the burgher ; "go with me to the ruins of the pal- 
ace on the lofty rock by the Danube. There is a prospect 
over the floating bridge, over towns, and corn-land ! Along 
the rock there hangs a street with many colored houses, with 
balmy trees, and children dance up there in the warm sun." 
We wander through the city ; here are old reminiscences, here 
are rare legends ! here are also charming roses, and still pret- 
tier children. I met quite a little girl ; she had a large bou- 
quet. She smiled on me. Seeing a stranger, she stopped, 
took one of the prettiest roses, gave it to me, nodded, and 
was gone. The rose shall not wither ; it shall bloom in a 
poem, and when the little one, herself, in a few years becomes 
a full-blown rose, accident may bring her this poem : will 
she then remember the stranger to whom she gave the flower ? 

We stand in the open square before the town-hall, over the 
gate of which there is a picture on the wall painted al fresco. 
It represents an old man in a black habit and with a long 
beard ; he bends over an open book. What.does this picture 
signify? What says the legend? It is a tale calculated to 
awaken horror. This figure was once one of the most power- 
ful councilors of the city ; he was an alchemist and astrol- 
oger—feared and hated. He knew how to appropriate 
everything to himself, even the poor widow's little field. And 
the poor woman forced her way into the council chamber 
where he sat with the mighty of the city ; she lifted her voice 
in despair, and demanded of him to take an oath that he had 
acted according to law and conscience. And he took the 
book, bent over it, read the oath with a hollow voice, raised 
his hand, and swore. Then a whirlwind rushed through the 
hall, and they all sank to the ground. When it was once more 
still and they rose, the perjurer had vanished. The window 
was broken, and outside on the wall there stood living in every 
feature, as we see it still, and ineffaceable, the figure of the 
councilor of Presburg. The devil had blown him into the 
smooth wall like a colored shadow. 

Our steamer was again on its flight : we met another 
steamer, Arpad ; it came from Vienna, and like ours, was over- 
loaded with passengers. Hats swung, handkerchiefs waved, 
we looked in each other's eyes, we saw ourselves there, and 



330 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

the picture vanished again. Not one of the many figures has 
remained behind in memory, except that of a lady in a nan- 
keen cloak, and with a green parasol ; she has found a place 
in my heart. I hope she is as affable as she appeared to be. 

The whole morning, long before we had reached Presburg, 
we saw a thick, heavy smoke rising in the horizon ; it was 
a fire ; the half of Theben had burnt that day. We ap 
proached this place at sunset ; it is one of the most pictur- 
esque on the whole voyage. A ruin stood on the top of the 
mountain, certainly the finest along the shores of the Danube. 
The red glare of the evening sun shone on the wet mill-wheel, 
which, as it went round, seemed to be of beaten gold. 

All was green and fragrant around ! What beauty, what 
magnificence in the whole scenery ! Theben, in Hungary, is 
a little spot fallen from heaven, and here, in all this splendor 
of nature, was wailing and need. Half of the town lay in rub- 
bish and ashes ; a thick smoke fumed from the burning 
houses ; the small chimneys stood like pillars in the air ; the 
roof had been torn off the church ; the blackened walls had 
been licked by the red flames ! What misery ! many mothers 
were yet seeking their children. A woman stood by the shore 
and wrung her hands ! A burnt horse limped away over the 
bridge ! 

We hurry past. We are in Austria ! next morning we shall 
see Vienna ! l 

Meagre, endless forests lay before us ! The air was thick 
and hot already in the early morning. There was no sun- 
shine, as over the Mediterranean and the Bosphorus. I fan- 
cied I was at home on a warm, oppressive summer's day ! 
My voyage was now over. A dejection of spirits crept over 
me, and pressed on my heart — a prediction of something 
evil ! In our little Denmark every person of talent stands so 

1 The voyage from Constantinople to Vienna occupies twenty-one days, 
besides the quarantine, and is extremely fatiguing. They pay in the first 
cabin one hundred gulden, in the second seventy-five, and on deck fifty. 
(A gulden is about half a crown English.) From Vienna to Constantinople 
the voyage is made in eleven days, it being with the stream. The pay- 
ment on board is, therefore, somewhat more : the first cabin is one hun- 
dred and twenty-five gulden, the second cabin eighty-five, and on deck 
fifty-six. 



FROM PESTH TO VIENNA. 



33* 



near the others, that each pushes and treads on the other, for 
all will have a place. As regards myself, they have only eyes 
for my faults ! My way at home is through a stormy sea ! I 
know that many a wave will yet roll heavily over my head before 
I reach the haven ! Yet this I know full well, that posterity 
cannot be more severe to me than are those by whom I am 
surrounded. 

Stephen's Tower stood in the thick warm air, above the 
blue-tinged trees of the Prater. 



HOMEWARD BOUND. 



VIENNA S THEATRE. 



THE Dane who travels in Germany comes more and more 
to the conviction, if he has not done so at home, that the 
Danish stage occupies an important place. Most of the large 
German theatres may, certainly, be allowed to contain con- 
siderable talent ; but the Danish stage possesses many claims, 
and has infinitely greater powers. Several of our actors and 
actresses would, if the Danish language were as extended as 
the German, acquire an European celebrity. Our repertory 
of acting plays is, besides, so rich in original works, that they 
can furnish intellectual food for the winter evenings of so good 
a quality, that there is no need to resort to translations. 

Holberg, Oehlenschlager, Heiberg, Overskou, and Hertz 
form a quintuple, which, in dramatic literature, would do 
honor to any country. " Germany has not one theatre like 
that in Copenhagen," I have heard several of my countrymen 
say, and I must acknowledge the truth of the assertion, when 
they do not reckon Vienna amongst the German cities. Burg 
Theatre, in Vienna, stands quite as high as the Danish theatre ; 
and in some respects higher, from the mass of extraordinary 
talent it possesses, the union, the concert of their acting, and 
the nature displayed in their performances. Anschiitz, Korn, 
Lowe, Carl la Roche, Wilhelmini, Fichtner — these are artists 
in the real signification of the word ! Madame Rettich, Fru 
von Weissenthurn ! — nay, I should set down an endless row of 
names, were I to point out those who may justly be called 
excellent. But we must not forget to add that Burg Theatre 
has this advantage, that it puts out its whole strength upon 
comedy, tragedy, and dramas. Our theatre, on the contrary, 



VIENNA'S THEATRE. ^oo 

as we have but that one, must, besides these different kinds 
of performances, divide its powers between the opera, the 
vaudeville, and the ballet. 

" Hoftheater nachst dem Karnthner Thor," in Vienna, is 
appropriated to the opera and the ballet. During my stay 
I did not hear German opera here, but Italian, and that the 
most excellent I have ever heard. The male singers were 
Napoleone Moriani, Badiali, Donzelli ; and the ladies Tadolini, 
Frezzolini, and Schoberlechner. I heartily wished that the 
Copenhageners might once hear such an Italian opera ; they 
would and must be enchanted ! Hitherto they have known 
none, and have for some years past despised and overlooked 
what they did not know. 1 The Northerns cannot sing Italian 
music : the reason, probably, why " La Gazza Ladra " was 
hissed off our stage. Italians should sing their own music, 
their own recitative. Then there is soul indeed ! It streams 
out from within ! It is as if their thoughts and speech must 
reveal themselves in song — it is their language. 

In the Italian towns they present only two or three operas 
the whole season. There was a great change of pieces at the 
Karnthner Thor Theatre. The newest I heard was " II Tem- 
plario," by Nicolai. The choruses are particularly fine. The 
subject is the same that Marschner has treated ; but Marsch- 
ner's harmony is, certainly, far superior, and, in my opinion, 
has only this fault, that the recitatives are wanting. These, it 
appears to me, ought to be introduced, instead of the dialogues, 
which disturb, nay, almost mar the effect of the music. In 
the world of tones all must be music ! 

The theatre " Nachst dem Karnthner Thor," has, besides 
the opera, a ballet ; but though there is a large stage here, 
with plenty of pomp and show, yet the ballet department will 
not bear any comparison with that of the Copenhagen theatre, 
which, at this time, stands very high, and our ballets surpass in 
taste and poetry all those I have had an opportunity of seeing 
in Germany and Italy. Paris and Naples, without doubt, excel 
us in the number of their dancers, and in their splendid deco- 
rations, but not in composition. 

1 It was after my return home to Copenhagen that the first Italian com- 
pany came here. 



334 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

When the Italian Galeotti died in Denmark, Terpsichore 
wept. Who was there that could supply his place as ballet 
composer ? No one took his place ; but a new one was born, 
who, like every true genius, made his own way — and that is 
Bournonville. He is a true poet ; his " Waldemar " is a great 
imitative drama, supported by Frohlich's genial music, and 
his " Festen i Albano " is a lyric poem. 

Besides these two royal theatres, Vienna has several others 
in the suburbs, where the honest citizen enjoys the dialects, 
and sees e very-day-life illumined by the Bengal lights of 
poetry. We dwellers in the North must live with those of 
Vienna, and know the people well, ere we can value rightly 
that genial life which exists in these lightly-sketched pieces. 

If a man would know a German theatre in its best aspect, 
if he would know German dramatic literature, know it when 
spoken from that rostrum it was written for, he must make a 
stay in Vienna, and then he will not, as I have heard Danes, 
say : " There is no German theatre, no German dramatic lit- 
erature ! " One evening's visit to the Burg Theatre will con- 
vince him that the Germans have a theatre, and as to its 
literature their dramatic repertory speaks for itself. Schro- 
der's comedy, " The Ring " ; Jiinger's, " He has his Nose 
everywhere " ; a drama like Ifland's " The Hunters " ; trage- 
dies like Goethe's " Egmont " and Schiller's " Wilhelm Tell," 
are fresh and imperishable branches in a dramatic literature ; 
and amongst the younger men what does not the dramatic 
power and poesy of Halm and Bouernfeld proclaim ? and we 
only name two natives of Vienna. 

We have in Denmark a species of poetic drama which they 
do not possess in Vienna ; I mean the Heiberg vaudevilles ; 
but however great an effect these have produced at home, 
partly from their own merit and partly from their excellent 
performance, yet I believe they cannot, in humor and poetic 
worth, be accounted better than some in a style of poetry they 
have in particular in Vienna, and we have not — their local 
comedies, and, in especial, Raimund's ! 



PROFILES. 335 

II. 

PROFILES. 

The larger squares and chief streets in Vienna present the 
appearance of a complete picture gallery ; every shop has its 
handsomely painted sign, either the portrait of some famous 
person or an allegorical piece. Every open place or square, 
and every street afford subjects for paintings that might adorn 
a whole gallery, from its living throng and its different groups. 
Yet sketches of this kind we already have in great numbers ; 
so by way of change we will just cut out a few profiles of well- 
known persons ; but you must remember that profiles do not 
give more than the shadow of a likeness. 

"We are in Volksgarten." Gentlemen and ladies stroll 
under the green trees in lively conversation ; the waiters fly in 
all directions to procure ices. The tones of a great orchestra 
spread through the garden. In the midst of the musicians 
stands a young man of dark complexion ; his large brown 
eyes glance round about in a restless manner ; his head, arms, 
and whole body move ; it is as if he were the heart in that 
great musical body, and, as we know, the blood flows through 
the heart : and here the blood is tones ; these tones were 
born in him ; he is the heart, and all Europe hears its mu- 
sical beatings ; its own pulse beats stronger when it hears 
them : the man's name is — Strauss. 

We are in one of the suburbs ; in the midst of an English 
park ; there is a little palace, and there lives Prince Didrik- 
stein. We pass through a range of handsome rooms ; the 
sounds of a piano meet our ears. The scene is rich and 
pretty here ; here is a charming prospect over the garden 
terraces. The tones we hear have their birth from one of the 
piano's masters. Liszt does not play thus ! He and the one 
we hear are equally great and equally different. Liszt aston- 
ishes, we are carried away by the whirling bacchanals ; here, 
on the contrary, we stand aloft on the mountain in the clear 
sunlight of nature, filled with greatness and refreshed with 
peace and grace ; we feel glad in the holy church of nature, 
where the hymns mingle with the dancing herdsman's song. 



2 $6 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

Who is the mighty ruler of this piano ? Regard him ; he is 
young, handsome, noble, and amiable ! Do you not know my 
profile ? Then I must write the name under it — Sigismund 
Thalberg. 

We drive out to Hitzing, the Fredericksberg l of Vienna ; we 
stand by a delightful little summer residence ; the garden is 
rich in trees and flowers. The old lady within is the gar- 
dener ; she has planted every tree : she has set every flower 
in the ground : here are pine and birch, tulips and odorous 
lindens. Flowering rose hedges form the borders around the 
fresh grass-plot. A tall, hale old woman comes to meet us ; 
what penetration is in her eye, what mildness in every feature ! 
Who is she ? We enter the room ; on the table stands an ele- 
gant vase with the image of a lyre encircled by a laurel 
wreath ; its leaves are partly gilt, partly green. The names 
of comedies are impressed on these leaves ; the gilt ones 
announce the pieces in which she, as an actress, enchanted a 
whole people; the green leaves bear each the name of one 
of her own dramatic works ; the meaning is, that she has 
gilded the other authors' laurels, her own stand always fresh 
and green ! The vase is a gift from brother and sister ar- 
tists ; at the bottom we read her name — Johanne von Weis- 
senthurn. 2 

We are in Vienna : we go up some broad stone steps, be- 
tween thick cold walls ; large iron doors with padlocks on, 

1 Fredericksberg, at about an English mile from Copenhagen, is the re- 
sort of the people, as Hampstead, Highgate, Greenwich, or Richmond, is 
for the Londoners. 

2 Since my return home to Denmark, this highly respected actress has 
taken leave of the stage ; she played the last evening in two of her own 
pieces. The translations from her " Sternberg Estate," and " Which of 
them is the Bride ? " have been successful on the Danish stage. Previous 
to her leave-taking, she performed often, not only at the Burg Theatre, 
but at the palace of Schonbrunn ; she told me she had lately performed 
the old mother's part in Le Gamut de Paris, for the first time ; but at the 
moment when the boy springs up on the chair, puts the paper hat on his 
head, folds his arms, and imitates Napoleon, she was so overwhelmed with 
recollections of the place, and from that stage, that she had nearly forgot- 
ten her part for the moment : just here, in this same little theatre, she had 
played before the real Napoleon, who in the same position had looked at 
her, the German actress. 



THE WORKMAN. 



337 



present themselves on each side, within which money and im- 
portant papers are kept. We enter a small chamber; the 
walls are hidden by book-shelves in which stand large folios ; 
round about are packets of writings and all the appliances of 
business. A tall, serious man sits before the desk ; it is not 
poetic matters that occupy him. The austere expression in 
his countenance changes to sadness. He looks at us ; there 
are soul and thought in that look ! How often has he not fixed 
it on the face of nature, and it was reflected therein ! In his 
youth he sang for us about the combat in his soul ; his muse 
revealed itself spectral-like, and yet the picture was like the 
fresh, blooming maid, " Die Ahnfrau." In his manhood he 
gave us " The Golden Fleece ; " it is hung up in the Muses' 
temple ; his name beams forth — Grillparzer. 



III. 

THE WORKMAN. 
A SKETCH FROM BOHEMIA. 

We have not only left the Imperial city, we have even come 
into the midst of Bohemia. Rich corn-fields, linden trees, and 
pictures of saints — these attract us here. 

It is sunset ; we see " Riesenbirge " — alas ! how small, how 
misty ; I fancy I see Kullen from the coast of Zealand ! It 
is not the Greek mountain outline ; here is not the Greek at- 
mosphere with its transparency. But yet I know this spot : 
the sight of these low mountains, that extended green field, 
the linden-trees, and this stone-heap close by the way-side. I 
saw it several years ago, and just in the same light as now ! 
It seems not to have won a flower, not a bush more since I 
last passed here ; in my thoughts and heart there is a new, a 
richer flower-blossom than these : flowers from the North, the 
South, and the East. The place has even lost : the chief 
figure, which in my memory belongs to this landscape, is want- 
ing. Here on this stone-heap there sat a young workman in 
a blue blouse, his hat covered with oil-cloth, stick in hand, and 
knapsack on his back ; he was the picture of youth and health. 



330 A POETS BAZAAR. 

Where is he now wandering in the world ? Or perhaps he 
has already found a quiet home, sits with wife and child just 
now at this hour, and tells them of his wanderings through Bo- 
hemia. There is much to hear ; a wandering life is a life full 
of change ! Does he remember his resting here on the stone- 
heap ? Does he remember the diligence which then drove 
past him? A stranger peeped out of the window, and let him, 
as the best figure in the landscape, mirror itself in his thoughts. 
No, he remembers it not. He throws his arm around his wife, 
kisses his beautiful boy. The traveller is yet no further in the 
world than by the stone-heap — there where the workman sat. 



IV. 

A GRAVE. 

Aloft on the mountain, with prospect over city, river, and 
wood-grown isles, lies old Hradschin. The church here con- 
tains the body of St. John Nepomucen in a magnificent silver 
coffin. What pomp within, what splendid scenery without ! and 
yet this is not the place that the Dane visits first in Prague. 
Down by the market-place is a poor little church ; a piazza 
and a narrow yard lead to it. The priest says mass before the 
altar ; the congregation kneel, and mumble an " Ora pro no- 
bis /" It sounds like a hollow, mournful sigh from the abyss ; it 
pours forth like a painful sob, a cry of lamentation. The Dane 
wanders through the aisle to the right; a large red-brown 
stone, in which is carved a knight in armor, is set in the 
pillar. Whose bones lie mouldering within ? A countryman's ! 
a Dane's ! a master-spirit ! whose name sheds a lustre over 
Denmark! — that land which expelled him. His castle at 
home is sunken in rubbish ; the ploughshare passes over the 
spot where he, in his cheerful room, searched the writings, and 
received the visits of kings ; the sea-gull flies through the 
air, where he read the stars from his tower ; his island of 
life and happiness is in strange hands. Denmark does not 
own it ; Denmark owns not even his dust ; but the Danes 
mention his name in their bad times, as if a denunciation pro- 



A NORTHWARD FLIGHT. 



339 



ceeded out of it : " These are Tycho Brahe's days ! " say 
they. 

The Dane weeps by Tycho's grave in a foreign land, and 
becomes wrathful against an undiscerning age. Denmark, 
thou hast hearts in thy shield ; have one also in thy breast ! " 
Be still, son of a younger race ; perhaps thou thyself, hadst 
thou lived in his time, wouldst have misjudged him like the 
others ; his greatness would have stirred up the sediments 
of thy vanity, and thou wouldst have cast it into his life's cup. 
Race resembles race — therein consanguinity betrays itself. 

A sunbeam falls on the grave-stone — perhaps a tear also ! 
The congregation mumble their evaporating, painful " Ora pro 
fiobis /" 



A NORTHWARD FLIGHT. 

Spring will soon be here ; the birds of passage then tend 
toward the South. Homeward I go from Bohemia's capital in 
steamships and steamboats ! Well-known, changing scenes 
glide past ; beautiful summer scenery, friendly faces, friendly 
voices — the hours vanish, and before I know it, I am in the 
North. 

Yet I still see Hradschin beaming in the sun, high above 
flourishing fields and charming groups of trees. Beautiful 
morning ! blot out from my memory the remembrance of yes- 
ter-evening's wandering in the " Baumgarten," the park of 
Prague. It appeared to me like a church-yard where people 
would be merry, but could not. Decent, orderly, but tiresome 
burgher families sat and drank ale under the trees where not 
a single bird twittered ; ugly Bajaderes with buckram in their 
coats went up and down ; even the puppet theatres were in 
a bad humor ; no one spoke for the dolls ; they dumbly threw 
out their arms, and fought each other. A coffin played the 
principal part in the piece. 

Why does the inelegant, ungraceful, unhandsome, fix itself 
so strenuously in the mind ? Prague has so much that is 
characteristic and beautiful ! Fresh, balmy morning, blot out 
all ugly and unpleasant remembrances ! 



340 



A POET'S BAZAAR. 



The flag waves on the Bohemia} Like a fish through the 
water, it shot down the stream between picturesque, wood- 
covered rocks. On every ruin, and in every little town that 
we dart past, there waves a flag ; they greet us with music ; 
the people wave their hats ; small cannons crack, and echo 
answers : it is a charming voyage. 

We have a Copenhagener with his daughter on board. • It 
is delightful ! " says she ; " but the water is so horribly yel- 
low ; here are none of our beech woods ! " 

" They are terrible mountains ! " says the father. " See, 
what a fellow ! I shall not go up it ! One can see just as 
well from below ! " 

That one cannot / Ascend the rock ! Let the fresh moun- 
tain breeze whistle round you, and be glad with the great 
abroad and with — the beautiful at home ! 

Hirniskretschen greets us ; we are on the borders of Saxony. 
" Trakten dr v acker : hvad som finnes och forsvinner for cgat 
i Italien, g'or nu en stor efect, sma strommar sma berg ! " This 
is the whole of Ehrensvard's striking description of the Saxon 
Switzerland ! 

When the Naphtha spring has ceased to stream forth, we 
then value the last bubbling drops ! Farewell, ye green, wood- 
crowned rocks, I exchange you for the extended plain with 
clover and beeches by the open strand. 

Dresden lies before us in the thick air, Northern Germany's 
Florence ; where Madonna, the Virgin mother, stands with 
the heaven-born child on the hovering cloud. The Protestant 
bends to the divinity in art ! Dresden is a friend one will 
not willingly lose ; he has something — what shall I call it ? — 
half civic, half romantic in his character. His gardens are of 
a rocky nature, with Konigstein and Bastei ; his study the gal- 
lery with the magnificent paintings. The new theatre is a pic- 
ture-book, so motley and splendid, with gold and scroll work. 
Yes, here we are in the middle of the picture-book ; we are 
overwhelmed with its diversified splendor ! Authors' portraits 
adorn the ceiling ; the boxes are gilded and well poised ; 
beauty sits here in the mussel-shell, as her sister Venus Ana- 

1 This is the first steam-vessel that sailed between Prague and Dresden ; 
it began to ply about a month before my arrival. 



A NORTHWARD FLIGHT. 



341 



dyomene has so often done ; the drop curtain presents to us 
Parnassus, where well-known figures appear before us, — Cal- 
deron, Moliere, Gozzi, Schiller, Goethe, and other great spirits. 
The border forms an arabesque of a dramatic character ; here 
are Romeo and Juliet, King Lear, Mephistopheles, Faust, and 
so on in an endless row. Yes, the theatre is a real picture- 
book, the play and opera are the text. I trust it will cause 
us to forget the imposing imagery. 

It is well to be here ; but we are on a journey — " bent on 
speed ; " yet a pressure of the hand from our dear Dahl, 
Vogel, Winckler, and the roaring, snorting, tearing, steam- 
engine is away over field and meadow to Leipsic, to Magde- 
burg, and again by steam to the furthest corner of Germany, 
to great Hamburg. It is a short voyage ; the hours may be 
told ; but we stop on the way, and that for days. 

Melody has a strange power ; friendship and admiration 
are equally as powerful. Mendelssohn-Bartholdy lives in 
Leipsic. 

How snug and comfortable it was in his home ; a handsome 
and friendly wife, and all so hospitable for the stranger ! A 
little morning concert, where, by the by, I heard " Adam," was 
given in Mendelssohn's room. The gifted Frau Goethe from 
Weimar and I were the fortunate guests. In the church, and 
on the same organ that Sebastian Bach played, Mendelssohn 
gave me one of Bach's fugues and a few of his own composi- 
tions. Mountain and valley, heaven and the abyss poured 
forth their hymns from the organ-pipes ; that was, in truth, a 
church concert ! Thou hast played for me, and therefore I 
bring thee my poor tribute. 

The steam-carriage flies with the swallow's flight. We are 
in Magdeburg. We sleep here a night, and are again on the 
Elbe. 

The steamer is dirty and heavy ; it stops on its course, goes 
on a little way, runs aground, and goes on again ; the beauti- 
ful scenery around reveals itself in a willow-tree or a pasture 
field. It is cold and gray here. The poet must help nature, 
for it always helps him. They read on board, for here is a per- 
fect reading-room. What book is that which two at once are 
so buried in ? It is a Danish book. Do not say that Denmark 



342 A POET'S BAZAAR. 

has no mountains ; its literature is a mountain, high and wood- 
grown ; it is seen from our neighbor-lands, shining blue in 
the horizon. Be cordial to us ; wander through our spiritual 
mountain scenery: here extend Oehlenschlager's mighty for- 
ests ; Grundtvig's tumuli, where the stones give forth a mel- 
ody like Memnon's statue ; here lie Holberg's towns with liv- 
ing beings as we see and know them ; here is the scent of 
the fresh-mown hay in Christian Winther's clover field. In- 
gemann leads thee by moonlight through the sweet-smelling 
beech woods, where the nightingale warbles, and the springs 
tell thee of olden memories. Hertz and Heiberg will teach 
thee that the Danish language has tones — -that it can be 
forged into whistling arrows, into flaming swords. There is 
life moving in the young race. Hear him who sang of Venus, 
Cupid, and Pysche ; he who relates " A Brother's Life ! " 
Follow him whom thou art reading here in the vessel : and 
who is he ? A pseudonym, — one Carl Bernhard, the younger 
brother of the author of " An Every-day Story ; " the younger 
brother who is rising as the elder is declining : the young tree 
shoots forth new and fresh branches every time ; the one 
stronger than the other. The elder-tree has lost its life's fresh- 
ness, its new branches are dry and decayed ; they fall of them- 
selves from the crown, which gives scent in "The Light 
Nights " — in " Dreams and Reality." 

The passage down the Elbe is soon ended ; it is the last 
evening ! How gray, how cold ! The swallows and martins 
fly across the river to their nests under the house-roofs and 
their holes in the declivities. 

The swallow comes from the warm lands in the spring-time ; 
instinct drives it toward the North ; it leads it through the 
airy desert to its nest. By the yellow, rolling river with the 
poor green shores, stands a small house with a blooming elder- 
bush. " There I must go ! " twitters the swallow. " Desire 
draws me thither, from the tall palm and the shady plantain." 

The elder-bush exhales such sweet fragrance. The old 
grandmother sits on the threshold, and looks at the ships ; a 
little girl sits on her stool, and amuses herself with the flowers 
on grandmother's gown. Poor swallow ! thou comest again ! 
The flowering elder is cut down ; the old grandmother is in her 



A NORTHWARD FLIGHT. 



343 



grave ; the little girl is out in the world with strangers. The 
house itself, where thou built thy nest, is smartened up and 
ornamented ; the new owner will not permit any swallows' 
nests. Alas ! how changed ! 

It is morning. Enveloped in a cold, raw mist, the towers 
of Hamburg stand before us. We are in the North. The 
Elbe rolls its milky waves against our ugly steamer. We land ; 
we drive through the dark, narrow streets. Here is music, a 
great musical festival. This evening all will beam with light, 
away over the Alster, and under the green avenues. Liszt is 
here. I shall hear him again in the same saloon as when I 
departed — hear again his " Valse Infernale ! " Shall I not 
think that my whole travelling flight was only a dream, under 
Liszt's rushing, roaring, fuming, foaming fantasias ? Not 
months, but only minutes have vanished. " No, time has ad- 
vanced ! " say my many countrymen, whom I meet on the Jung- 
fernstieg. " We have gone greatly forward, whilst you were on 
your travels ; we have got omnibuses in Copenhagen." Yes, 
it goes forward, say I to myself, as I on my wanderings see 
Heiberg's name brought to the corner of Altona. Miss Sich- 
lau has, with " Emily's Palpitation," brought his name to the 
Elbe. There it is on the play-bill, which is plastered up at 
the street-corner : an itinerant Danish company perform Hei- 
berg's vaudevilles in Altona. 

Music sounds ; rockets ascend ! Farewell ! Over the swell- 
ing sea to the green islands ! 

I have never known home-sickness, unless when the heart 
has been filled with a singular love at thinking of the dear 
friends at home, an endless pleasure, which pictures forth the 
moment that we see them again, for the first time, in the well- 
known circle. Then the picture comes forth so life-like, that 
tears come into the eyes ; the heart melts, and must forcibly 
tear itself away from such thoughts ! Is this home-sickness ? 
Yes ! Then I also know it. The first moment of arrival at 
home is, however, the bouquet of the whole voyage. 



THE END. 



*T* 






X>}2L* 33 i> 
33 >3 3>33 

>3J3 !3333> 
o>^> . 3b33> 

b 3 3 ;> 33> 

^5 3^> !3S 

Wk> 3> 3 3> 

30 33 3 3> 

rao S3 :>3 
>>:>• -3> •> 3 » 
m> 3> 3 EX3& 

32S> 33D^ 



.3333 

3»3 

333:3 
>3»> 

>3>3 . 

■3>3 
3> 3 : 
*3b3 : 

3 3> • 



e*P 33 



> ■ 3 3" 3 

3»:>~:3>3 >: 
3>3 "3*3 ^ 
3^J» [T 

33 3 _ 

33 3 : 



33^3 
:>>3 . 

3^ d : 

>>3 3 

»3si ^ 



^""35iQi 



3? 



3 3 333 3 



3>3 

333 

3>3 

33TD 

3>b:> 

332>3 

3 y y> 



33:£>3 
3333 

> > ->3> 

> 4 ^ 

3>3 3 
3 33 

33 3 
v "3 3 
>i> 
2£>3 



b o 
_> 3S 

3 V > 
3 >3 
3 >L> 

3 3E> 



33333 
3 3333 
333f2> 
3 3 »33 
33 33 
33>33 
3>3 D3 

33 33 

33 33 

33 33 



333 

3>3>3> 



> 3»3 3 

> 3»3 3 

> 333 3 

333333 

> >o o 

> 33 ^ 

>3 3 3 

>33 3 

> > 3 3 



33 33 

3b 33 

33 53 



3B> > 

' 3>3 3 

' so y^ 

32SO> 

32S> 33> 

3P>)3> 

35*) bj>. 

3*D 33 
3>b b3 

3 3 ^r-w 



333 3 3 
333 33 
333 3 3' 

33333 3 



-'3 
3> 3 

3*3g> 
3K3& 

3>^E> ;> 



3 53 C 
3 3 f 
>3 " 
333 3 
>33 ^> ^J» 
3 3 3 *LS» 



> 3 3 >3> 

> 3 3 33> 

> >> 3> ^3> 3 
-> > 3 2> 

>3 3 ^> : 

5 2> 3 5> i 

> D 3 >^> > 
3 3» > 

. >3 >3 > 



33 

^33. 

>33> 
» 33 

1 

i 

33 > 

^3 ) 

3 W 



> .3 3 2> 

►3 3^ 3 ; 

3 3> 3 

3 3> »> 

3 3> 3 • 

3 3> 3 

"3> 33 3 

3 33 D 

3 3) 3 

3> 3b 3b 

>> » b> 

3> 3333 

3> 3b 33 

> 33 3> 

> 33 33 
» 33 33 

> 33 33 
33 33 

33 33 
33 33 
3D 33 
33 33 
33 33 
33 33 
33 33 
33 33 

If 



-» JO .» 5> 



3B# 






33>3S>Z> 



■ ;> :> © > :> 



War Department Library 

Washington, D. C. 

/ssf 

JNo 



m& 










Losses or injuries 
must be promptly ad- 
justed. s 

No books issued 
during the month 
of August. 

Time Limits : 
Old books, two 
weeks subject to 
renewal at the op- 
tion of the Librarian. 
New books, one 
week only. 



ACME LIBRARY CARD POCKET 
Made by LIBRARY BUREAU, Boston 



35 •» 3I> 



KEEP YOUR CARO IN THIS POCKET 



» ft 


^>^> 


£> v 


>J 


» <) 


» 


) 2> 


>> 




J*> 



i#s 



3D 3Q> > _ 

5> s>'i3 : 






:> 



•'-2. 2?» *3» ^%> 






3*J» ^ 37> 















?L 









^"'Z» » T> 



dM*J%,58i 



^x 



;.& tL 






5 J >* - :'-.3n^ 



